


If The Present World Go Astray

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Breakdown of Society, Character Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Horror, M/M, Mild Gore, Plague, Science Experiments, Sexual Content, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has always been easier to destroy than to create. Severus learns firsthand how true this is when he and Hermione are faced with an enemy they cannot defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mundungus42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundungus42/gifts).



> Written for the 2011 SS/HG fic exchange on LJ and gifted to Mundungus42. 
> 
> **WARNING:** Though I did not go all out, there is some gore, blood, nastiness in this fic. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers, JK Rowling, or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas: Sotia and Stgulik - you ladies made it ten times better.

_If the present world go astray, the cause is in you. In you, it is to be sought. ~ Dante_

 

The sky in this Muggle area used to be thick with industrial smog, coating everything in a thin film of noxious residue.

But not anymore.

Now, there is nothing that fills the vast emptiness above, save for the occasional crow searching for its next meal, its loud cawing indicating that it won’t go hungry today. I doubt any scavenger has had such an easy time of it in their lives as they have in the past year.

The silence is suffocating. I, who used to prize my isolation, who used to hate the intrusion of others, am now desperate to find the merest shred of evidence that somewhere, someone else lives in this wasteland. I, Severus Snape, truly grieve for what is left of humanity. 

I slice open the veins on my left wrist and watch dispassionately as the dark copper fluid wells on my skin, spilling over and into the glass jar below. I have done this so many times in the last months, I am immune to the pain. When the bottom of the jar is no longer visible, I murmur a spell that halts the blood flow and seals the wound. Because of the frequency of this ritual, I bare deep scars on both my wrists, despite the healing charms.

I do it willingly.

Not for some imagined penance, let me assure you; I paid my debt to the Wizarding world with the demise of both of my masters. And not in some misguided attempt to end my existence; I have grown very accustomed to living and I plan to continue doing so, contrary to the current situation. 

No, I do it for _her_.

Not the ‘her’ of my youth, though I will always mourn the friendship that was lost and forever bear the resulting pain, but _her_ , the one who came back for me. 

I pour a carefully prepared unction into the same glass as the blood and begin stirring. Counter-clockwise, twenty times. It is the same number of silver slices in my flesh, ten on each arm. I then add a specialised plasma mixture as a bonding agent, the colour quickly changing from dull brown to orange. It is ready.

And I hear her slight footsteps upon the wooden floorboards upstairs, as if she has some preternatural knowledge of what I am working on. I know she tries not to make a sound, desperately wanting to be as stealthy as I once was, but I seem to have developed a heightened awareness regarding her movements, her general state of being and, most importantly, her health.

I am ever mindful of that.

The top step that leads to the cellar creaks with her weight, and I hear her swear under her breath in frustration. I smile wryly to myself. Her continued efforts to surprise me are amusing, if nothing else.

“I know you heard me,” she grumbles. 

I arch a single brow, which makes her eyes narrow. She says nothing more and perches her shapely backside upon the stool next to my meagre workbench, crossing her arms to glare at me. I know she sees the accoutrements for the procedure.

She sighs heavily, rolls up the left sleeve of her grey thermal shirt and holds the arm out for me to inspect. “Poke away.”

“You could at least pretend to be appreciative,” I mutter, grabbing it. Her skin has a peach hue to it, which I note on a piece of parchment. That is a positive sign. If it becomes tinged with grey, or overly ruddy in colour, then I’ll know my time is running out.

Her soft touch halts my inspection. “Severus, you know I am beyond grateful.”

I know she is grateful. I know very well. She was with me when we discovered what had happened... to everyone. She knows better than any, save one, the horrors of the past twenty months—the same amount of scars on both our arms—and the atrocities that continue to this day. 

“Don’t be cross,” she pleads, swiping at a stray lock that has blocked my vision. 

My lips thin into a grimace. I have always enjoyed the capability to instill fear in others with just a sneer or a growl, a piercing glance. Now, I find that I have no wish to provoke such an emotion in this woman sitting before me. She has seen enough to last her five lifetimes.

“I am not cross.” Not really. I am just not in a companionable mood. 

Before I can tie the tourniquet around her bicep, her hand is cupping my weathered cheek, her long and graceful thumb caressing the dark skin I know is underneath my eyes. “What is it?”

I always yearn for the gentle touch she so generously bestows upon me, but today it makes my soul ache. “I have no more untainted plasma. This is the last batch.”

She does not react, except for a small gasp that I wager she wanted to stifle. “Then we’ll send Remus out tonight to find another candidate.”

Now my mood is not only uncharitable, it has escalated to sour. “The last one he found was dead, killed by the very family he had saved.” I shake my head. “How many do you think are left?”

“Tell him to hunt south tonight, instead.” So logical and stubborn, this brave witch. She holds out her arm again. “So, get on with it.”

I grasp her forearm forcefully, wincing when I see that she grimaces but says not a word. Exasperation bleeds through in everything I am trying to accomplish. “He had to cover hundreds of miles before he even found _that_ human,” I remind her as I lace the elasticised rubber over her bicep. “Make a fist.”

She does as I ask, pumping her fingers, causing her veins to rise to the surface. Magic cannot be used during the procedure or it will render the potion useless, so it must be done the Muggle way. I have done this at least a hundred times on the people under our care, but it is only palliative in nature, not the actual cure.

I cannot kill this minute monster. 

I have always prided myself on the breadth of knowledge I have gathered over the considerable years that I have been alive, always revelled in the sheer euphoria of wholly grasping a concept and then manipulating the composition of said idea so that the benefits far outweighed the consequences. But there are always limits, as with anything of import, instances where one is so focused on what they could do that they never stop to consider if they really should. The ramifications of such acts are often discovered too late. 

I cannot kill this thing that was created by nature and twisted into something perverse by man.

I cannot cure the witch sitting before me, who watches me with those earthy brown eyes, the implicit trust that constantly shines from them. I cannot cure the three other people residing in my cramped row house, try as I may.

When I jab the crook of her elbow with the needle, I hear her whimper, though she courageously says not one word to stop the pain that she knows is coming. The moment the potion starts flowing through her veins, the burning agony will contort her body. It is the only way, however, to ensure that she lives. 

I hate that I must do this to her. 

Amazingly enough, she does not make any further sounds—not while I hold her, after the transfusion. The first time I attempted this process, she had just suffered the throes of a delirious fever after we had Apparated from our original location. While she writhed in the tub, convulsions wracking her body, Lupin held her so that she wouldn’t injure herself. Once I administered the potion, she screamed until she lost her voice, her back arched and feet rigid. That was the one and only time I was forced to let her undergo the tortures of impure ingredients. 

Her fingers curl on my sleeve, and I know the potion is slowly making its way throughout her body. I untie the tourniquet and lay it on the table, disposing of the used needle. Near to collapse, she lolls forward into my embrace, wrapping her arms around my neck. 

I cradle her close, murmuring nonsensical things in her ear to distract her. This also gives me an excuse to bury my sensitive nose in her limp curls as I gently rock her back and forth, despising every shudder her small frame makes.

“Severus,” she manages and tightens her grip, her fingers threading in my hair. The ripping and pulling of the strands hurts like hellfire, but I wouldn’t remove her hands for all the Galleons in the world. 

I am her anchor, immovable, steady and constant. I am her friend, her teacher and, were circumstances better, her lover. For once in my wretched life, I am needed, not for my ability to provide and procure secrets or to be used until Death is knocking on my door, but because they have utter faith in me. 

I know she cares for the former greasy bat of the dungeons; I see it in her facial expressions, in every touch, in her words and kindness. I would do anything it takes to be worthy of her.

And yet, I cannot save Hermione Granger.

~ ~ ~

“Is she sleeping?”

Why is it this man’s presence forever ignites my ire? Oh, that’s right... because he’s a seemingly innocuous werewolf. “See for yourself.” I point to the camp bed off to my left in the cramped cellar.

Remus Lupin ducks under the low overhanging archway into the damp area and unfolds his long body to loom over her. “How did she do this time?”

I sneer when he sits on the edge of the bed and runs his disgusting fingers through her hair. “As she always does, Lupin. Nothing has changed.”

“Ah, that bad.” He turns his unwanted sympathetic gaze to me. “And how are you feeling?”

“I would feel immeasurably better if you were to actually find me a pure-blood or someone with immunity.”

He rises at this point and dares to step closer to me. I abhor his existence, but his usefulness to our goal far outweighs my personal dislike for him.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like, trying to find a needle in a haystack?” He snorts and shakes his head. “I haven’t caught one whiff of a pure-blood in months. _Months_.”

My lips thin in agitation. There has to be a pure-blooded wizard or witch somewhere in the whole of the United Kingdom. “Turn your search south, tonight.” 

“Where exactly?”

“Try Ottery St Catchpole. The Weasleys lived there. Perhaps they still do.”

He grimaces, and I know why. “Do you think they’ll still help Hermione after all that business with Ron?”

I glare, hard. “ _Make_ them understand.” I begrudgingly admit that using Lupin as an enforcer brings me a sadistic sense of delight.

“Should I just bind one if they resist?” 

“Whatever it takes.” And I mean that literally. Hermione Granger’s life is more precious than all the wealth or power in the world. At least to me.

“I wish...” 

I hate when he gets maudlin. His guilt mounts him like he is a bitch in heat, which is an apt analogy, given his characteristics. “Wishing will not help Hermione.” 

He clears his throat and nods. “Right. I’ll leave in a few hours.” 

I glance at him when he doesn’t leave the room. I have come to detest the look he wears now, the pleading eyes, the longing I see in the twitch of his fingers as they raise for a hesitant moment and then drop. I know he sees me as a substitute for that mangy cur, Black. A few steps back, and I am no longer within reach. 

“Right,” he reiterates with a strained voice. Another nod, and he is gone, along with the oppressive air that seems to follow him.

A rustle of covers brings my attention to the witch lying on the bed, watching me with her perceptive gaze. “He is lonely.”

With a snort, I return to sorting through the items I will need for my next experiment. “Unless his hands have suddenly been rendered useless, he is more than capable of relieving any stress he might feel.”

She laughs lightly. “Is that what you do?”

I pause for a moment and wonder what her question is leading to, for I know if I answer one, there will be another to follow. “In times of great need, I have always managed,” I reply evasively. 

“I see.” She sits up. It is this way after a transfusion: suffer the after-effects, sleep for several hours and awaken hungry and shaky. “So how many times of ‘great need’ have you had in the past few months?”

There is a mischievous glint about her expression that I don’t wholly trust. “Why do you want to know?”

She stands on trembling legs, walks slowly to where I sit at the table and lays a hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to think you weren’t human.” Smiling impishly, she leans down and brushes a tender kiss on my forehead.

Her touches as of late are increasing in frequency and intimacy, and I fear that she may go too far before too long. “Hermione,” I murmur. I can’t seem to make my voice sound anything more than garbled. “I am only a man.” I refuse to admit to others that my walls are penetrable, but with her, they are practically nonexistent. 

Her clear eyes search mine. “I know.” Slowly, she descends to touch her lips to mine in the softest kiss I have ever known. It is also the most erotic. “Save me,” she whispers against my mouth.

The words fill me with anguish, and I can do nothing but whimper and clutch at her, pulling her close. “I am trying.” I tug her between my thighs and bury my nose in the crux of her neck, inhaling deeply. When her arms enfold me within her embrace, I feel the prickle of tears stinging my eyes. “I swear to you on all that is holy, I will find a cure.”

She withdraws until she can see me and cups my cheeks in her warm and dainty hands. “I have faith in you. If anyone could create a cure, it would be you.” She presses another kiss to my mouth while soothing away the tears that I did not realise were making tracks down my face. 

I am held in her arms for several moments, her head lying atop mine while she runs her hand up and down my back in long, slow strokes. On the rare occasion when I have received genuine affection, I have always welcomed it. This is something different, however. This is Hermione assuring me that, no matter what happens, she will not cease her tender care of me. It is her way, this quiet assertion of things best left unsaid.

“Do you remember when I first came to you, asking to be your apprentice?” she muses aloud. Her fingers thread gently through my hair, rubbing the areas she pulled at in her previous struggle.

I tighten my grip on her waist. Of course I remember. That was when everything began.

~ ~ ~

Two years after the war, the termagant had not changed since her tenure at Hogwarts. Her hair was still an uncontrollable rat’s nest, though longer than in the past. While she had grown in height, somewhat, the top of her head still came to just under my chin. I know, because her skull was exceedingly hard when it hit my jaw, as I often peered into her cauldron. Of course, that was always followed by profuse apologies, until I’d tell her to shut her blathering trap and get on with the experiment. She would then glare, grit her teeth, turn up her pernicious nose and continue stirring. Such was the way of our relationship: tenuous at best, contentious and competitive at our worst.

Later that fateful day, Hermione had returned to the Shrieking Shack, where I’m sure she’d expected to collect the cold remains of my corpse, but to her surprise—and mayhap disappointment on Potter’s part—she’d found me gasping as the anti-venom potions I had swallowed slowly coursed through my veins. With the exception of some dubious choices in my youth leading to my involvement with the Death Eaters, I had never been ill-prepared in my life, especially where the Dark Lord was concerned. I had foreseen nearly every eventuality, every manoeuvre the megalomaniac had envisioned, which had led to my experimenting on myself for months with toxins that could have easily killed me in the wrong dosage. I had built up quite a resistance to several poisons and venoms, including the one Riddle had milked from that foul serpent. Voldemort had ordered my death, though he claimed he was sorry for it. Oddly, I had never in my time as a Death Eater heard him express his regrets at killing someone. I guess in a morbid way, I should have felt flattered. 

Potter had asked me once about my service to the Dark Lord. Yes, there was remorse where his mother’s death was concerned. No, I still did not care for his father or his father’s miscreant friends. No, not even Lupin. Well, the werewolf was, and is, a slight exception. At least he provided some challenge when it came to playing chess. But otherwise, no. The Dark Arts still held an appeal, as they always would, and no, I would not cease being an unmitigated bastard. My feelings were my own where Dumbledore was concerned and they would remain that way, and no amount of cajoling or Lily’s green eyes floating with tears will goad me into saying more. Yes, I still thought him an imbecile with more luck than brains. Begrudgingly, I might have admitted that I found him a tad more tolerable, but since the discussion with Potter was in private, no one but the two of us will ever know the extent of my feelings on the matter. Perhaps, not even me. 

Granger was another story altogether. She had spent two years at a Wizarding university, which included Muggle subjects, such as Biology, Chemistry and applied Physics, and had graduated _Egregia Cum Laude_ in the shortest time of any student. Ever. Pedantic swot. Of course, she had put the student body and professors alike to shame, the erudite chit. I had expected that and more, wherever she decided to further her studies. What I had not anticipated was the path she’d fixated on after leaving university: working as my apprentice. 

I had never had one and hadn’t intended on taking one. When she’d literally stood outside my private quarters for nearly four hours, demanding to be heard on the merits of such a working relationship, I finally let her in, if only to stop the gaggle of gossiping spectres that her tirade seemed to be drawing.

 

_“No.”_

_“There are many advantages to taking me on, Professor Snape. If you would just—”_

_“No.” Better to stop her delusions of grandeur before she has a chance to voice them. “Cease and desist your infernal racket outside my chambers and leave me be!”_

_“There are many within the Ministry that would jump at the chance to have me work for them.”_

_A malicious sneer curls my lip. “Then go and ‘jump’ them, Miss Granger. I do not require your ‘services’.”_

_She crosses her arms, narrows her eyes and thins her lips to practically nothing. “The credit for any successful research, any improvements, any viable work goes directly to you, along with the entirety of the profits.”_

_I snort. “To what end? I can do these things and more now, and without having to suffer your presence.”_

_I observe the cogs turning in her mind, the shoring up of her courage. “But you do not have access to the latest equipment, whereas I’ve been given the opportunity to conduct ground-breaking research with the most technologically advanced tools that could increase your profit margin by sixty percent.”_

_Damn. She has a point. Though I do not suffer from the deadly sin of Avarice, a professor’s salary is inadequate to indulge in proper research. I stand from my chair by the fire and pace slowly, my hands behind my back. “How long?” I hedge._

_A triumphant light enters her eyes, and though I would never admit it to a living soul, the sight intrigues me. “Just until I reach my Masters.”_

_“And how long will that be?”_

_She bites her lip. “A normal program lasts about five years.”_

_I harrumph. It is laughable that she would take that long. “Which means you’ll be done in three.”_

_Her cheeks flush prettily. “I’m glad you have such faith in me, Professor.”_

_I make sure she sees me roll my eyes. “False modesty does not become you, Miss Granger. Please refrain.” We both know she would do everything in her power to achieve more in less time than ‘normal’ people._

_“Yes, sir,” she says contritely. Her fingers are tangling with themselves. “So, you agree to take me on?”_

_Against my better judgement, I nod and receive an armful of squealing witch for my troubles. Only in my darkest hours will I indulge in the warmth that embrace brings to me. Only then will I acknowledge that human contact has become so very precious in that moment._

 

As it was, I could not have asked for a more qualified apprentice. She was diligent, efficient, and I admit that her enthusiasm for certain things filtered down to me. Such as her theory that she could isolate the werewolf genome, ascertain its genetic code sequence and possibly find a way to eradicate it, or at least render it incapable of its destructive mutations. This led us to the research we were doing in China. 

We were in Hong Kong, near the Tung Wah teaching hospital in Sheung Wan, having been invited by the Chinese Wizarding community—called _Chung-kuo_ , which meant ‘the middle kingdom’—to explore the possibilities of gene therapy and Lycanthropy. The area had experienced a surge in werewolf activity, and to date, I had produced the strongest formula of the original Wolfsbane potion, so they expected me to provide the answer for all their woes. They allowed me access to the finest equipment, the purest of ingredients. That, of course, thrilled my enthusiastic apprentice.

After five months of research into the inordinate amount of lupine activity in the area, rumblings had surfaced within the Muggle nations of catastrophic events occurring with a frequency unheard of in recent years. The Wizarding world was usually sheltered from these events, separate but parallel. Had we not been trying to recover our own society from near annihilation, we would have seen the signs the Muggle world was in jeopardy. When the harsh reality intruded, it was too late.

Granger and I were conducting clinical trials when we became aware that the surrounding Muggle area had grown somewhat frantic. Due to the unstable nature of our experiments, we could not use magic during certain procedures, such as collecting specimens, lest it render the samples worthless. Remus Lupin, who had survived the Killing Curse hurled his way during the war due to his very lycanthropy, was assisting us in the form of a glorified lab rat. He had no family or relations left alive, having dissuaded Nymphadora Tonks of the disastrous idea of starting a relationship with him—which I believed was to the mutual best interest—and once he’d caught wind of our trip, had decided to badger Granger into letting him accompany us. He’d argued that receiving free Wolfsbane potion and a few pricks of a needle here and there was worth putting up with me for months on end. 

I thought Lupin’s mental faculties were greatly suffering, if he could make such a statement and mean it. Personally, I believe he fancied Granger—whom I’d given leave to call me Severus, though I glared at Lupin every time he tried to do so. I could see his feelings for her in the way he tried to block my proximity to the girl, in the posture he adopted if I happened upon them during an experiment. The mere thought of a relationship starting between the two set my teeth on edge, and I was ever watchful of the flirtations he idly indulged in, the way his pale blue eyes followed every move she made. I told Granger often enough that we would do well to capture a wild specimen to experiment on, but she had a soft spot for the mangy beast, and would not hear of it. 

Since our research was housed in a teaching hospital, there were any number of patients at any given time—wizard and Muggle alike. Other than the company funding the research grant, no one truly knew of our presence, and we preferred it that way. In July, during one of the most tedious portions of a test, we were visited by our Muggle liaison, something that rarely happened.

 

_“You must go now,” the man says urgently._

_Granger and I just look at each other in confusion. Lupin, sitting in a chair with a tourniquet around his bare bicep, snorts. “We can’t just leave; we’re in the middle of—”_

_“No,” the Muggle says with a cutting motion of his hand. “You no understand. Must leave now, before contamination. No other option.” His lips thin with impatience. “Death is in the city!”_

 

He left before we could question him further. By the time he had told us, however, the disease was already decimating the Muggle population. Stunned at his proclamation, the three of us cast a modified Shield Charm and made our way into the overcrowded hallways of the hospital, where we saw hundreds of gurneys filled with patients in varying stages of some horrific ailment.

Why had they not alerted us sooner? 

“Severus,” Hermione whispered, putting her hand over her mouth and nose. “The smell...” She turned several shades of green. 

I quickly merged my shield with hers. After withdrawing a linen handkerchief, I spelled it to smell like cloves and cinnamon. “Here.” I pressed it over her nose. “Breathe deeply; it will counteract the nausea.” 

She clasped her hands over mine, her eyes peeking above the edge of the cloth, watering. “Thank you.” Her words were muffled.

We turned to see Lupin still hanging about the entrance from the hospital to our lab, his lips curled in a near feral snarl. “They’re all dead,” he growled, his nostrils flaring. 

“Some still live,” I countered, spying a young man thrashing about on his gurney, strapped to the bed, most likely to prevent his escape. 

Shaking his head, Lupin advanced, grabbed us both by the arm and dragged us back into the lab. “They’re dead, Snape, it’s only a matter of hours, if that.” He scanned the room and focused on the barred window. “We need to create a Portkey and leave.”

“Our equipment. Our research!” Hermione protested.

“Our own lives,” I snapped at her. “I survived the Dark Lord, I’m not about to lose my life to some Muggle malady.” 

“But we can help them!” she protested. “I just need samples of their blood to determine what pathogen is causing this and then we can create a vaccine to—”

“This is something different, Hermione,” Lupin warned. I could actually see the hackles raised on his back. “The scent is all wrong.”

Though I disliked Lupin on principle alone, I did not discount that some of his senses were more acute than ours. “Wrong in what way?”

The wolf moved towards the entrance to the hospital and placed his hand upon the door to open it a fraction. “I’ve smelled death before, but this is more.” He inhaled deeply then retreated quickly and slammed the door shut. “I can’t specify the component that makes it unique, but I think it’s... plague.”

“Plague?” My tone was incredulous. “You incite panic because of plague?” There were a number of cures for Muggle plague, depending on what strain we were dealing with. 

“I don’t understand,” Lupin said with a frown. “Plague can decimate populations in a matter of months.”

“Remus, we just need samples from those infected, and I’ll be able to issue the proper antidote to them,” Hermione placated. 

“I don’t believe you two,” Lupin growled, darting his gaze between Granger and me. “I just told you there is something different about this outbreak. At this point, we’re all contaminated.”

“All the more reason for me to obtain samples,” she argued, gathering several stoppered glass tubes and capped needles. 

In retrospect, I don’t know if it was my logic or something I wish remained deep and buried within me, but I grabbed her arm, halting her progress to the door. “I’ll take the samples.” It was a reasonable statement, as I had been the one to draw Lupin’s blood. 

Hermione resisted for a fraction of a moment, but nodded. Then she looked at me with those doe’s eyes—those damnable eyes that spoke volumes in their earthy depths. “Take all safety precautions,” she whispered. “Please.”

The irritation from Lupin was nearly a living presence; it resonated in the lab at such a high level. My smirk was triumphant. “I always take precautions.”

She placed the vials and needles in my outstretched hand. “I know you do. Just be extra vigilant this time.” Her fingers slid along my palm, and I forced myself to keep from curling my calloused hand around hers. 

“I’ll go with you,” Lupin said in a low tone. Of course, he’d watched our exchange. I’d wanted him to. If I had anything to do with it, the half-breed would not touch her... ever.

At the door, she reminded us, “One vial for each stage.”

I arched my brow. “Do try to remember I’ve done this before.”

“Yes, well...” She bit her bottom lip. It was a wonder that poor piece of flesh was still attached to her mouth with as much as she gnawed on it. “Just be careful.”

I said nothing more and cast another Shield Charm, leaving alongside Lupin. We traversed the short corridor before arriving at the area where there was a virtual cacophony of wails and moans, coughing and retching. I added a Masking Charm to the shield, to prevent odours from assaulting me while I worked. 

“I think this one is dead,” Lupin said, pointing to a woman who was lying on the tile floor, propped up against the wall. “I’ll get her blood moving, and you can take the sample.”

“Not too much; I don’t want to be splattered.” 

“Yes, that would be a shame.”

Turning slowly, I glared at Lupin and his mulish expression. “Whatever you are pondering, I’d advise against it.” I gave him a smug smirk. “She would be very put out with you.”

This, of course, achieved the emotional reaction I was going for. Lupin was riled. He tried to lean close, his teeth bared, as if to dominate me. I turned and thrust my arm through his pitiful shield, wrapping my fingers around his throat and pressing him against the wall.

“Come near me like that again, and I won’t care that Granger likes to keep you on a leash. I’ll end your pathetic existence and send you to meet your reprobate friends.” I squeezed harder, delighting in the deep shade of red that began creeping into his features. “Are we clear, Wolf?”

He opened his mouth, but all that he was able to utter was, “Fuck you!”

“Not likely.” I slammed him against the peeling paint of the wall. “And if you so much as look at her in a manner not pleasing to me again, I will have no qualms about serving your head on a silver platter.” I wanted to do that and so much more. “I reiterate: are we clear?”

Eyes bulging from the pressure around his throat, Lupin could only nod, until I let go and stepped away. “You’re a bastard,” he said with a cough, rubbing his neck.

“I think it prudent you remember that in the future—don’t you?” I turned and bent low to the dead woman. “Now, are you going to keep posturing and pissing about or are you going to help me?”

I could see there was a scathing retort poised on his lips, but he wisely let it drop. Removing his wand, he cast, “ _Cruor Amoveo_ ,” and handed me the tourniquet that had been wrapped around his own arm. “Should last about five minutes.”

After placing a pair of Self-Sterilising Gloves on my hands—patented by Percy Weasley, of all people—I found a vein and watched as the blood sluggishly oozed into the tube. “Find others,” I grunted to my dubious companion. “I’m almost done here.”

Sending Lupin away gave me an excuse to study the patient without him standing over me. Though the woman was dead, rigor mortis had not set in just yet, and the heat pouring off her body was substantial—more so than it should be for someone who had just expired. I suspected fever, one that had progressed to a dangerous level that led to seizures and finally complete cessation of brain function. Blood-tinged sputum covered her mouth and chest area, evidence of multiple coughing fits. There were also petechiae covering her cheeks, indication of forceful vomiting and asphyxiation. Lifting her upper lid, I noticed the petechiae extending into her eyes, which were dark yellow, almost orange. 

“I found several more, but I’ll have to subdue them to obtain samples,” Lupin said, standing above me. 

I rose and followed him to five other patients, collecting specimens; three were combatitive and had to be subject to a _Petrificus Totalus_ , one was mentally incapacitated and gave no indication that he was aware of our presence, and the final one assumed we were medical personnel associated with the hospital. The people further along in the disease showed symptoms like those I had studied in the dead woman: raging fevers, vomiting and blood about their mouths. The patients in the beginning stages complained of a headache and chills and looked like they were about to collapse. Shock, most likely.

Once our task was complete, I placed the six vials of blood in a containment sphere and followed Lupin back to our secluded lab, visually assessing patients along the way. From what I could tell, the infection was swift, and the results fatal within days, if not hours.

Entering the lab, I deposited the vials on the workspace designed for more volatile ingredients. “The ones numbered one through five were live patients. Number six was deceased,” I told Hermione.

She nodded absently, gloved her hands, shielded herself and plucked a vial from the bunch. Then, she inserted a needle into the rubber stopper top, pulled the plunger and withdrew a minute amount of the blood. 

Placing the sample in a test tube, she briefly mixed it with a diluted solution of an electron-opaque solution of ammonium molybdate. The mixture was applied to a coated electron microscope grid, blotted, and allowed to dry. The method was crude, but important in microbiology for fast morphological identification, or so Hermione had tried to explain to me once when I’d made the mistake of asking about her preparations. Apparently, the method allowed for high resolution and three-dimensional reconstruction, using the electron microscope.

Normally, all those preparations were not necessary, as specimens needed to be extremely thin, typically one hundred nanometres. Biological specimens, however, required chemical fixation, to be dehydrated and embedded in a polymer resin to stabilise them sufficiently to allow ultrathin sectioning. Once this was complete, Hermione would ‘stain’ the sample with a wave of her wand, inundating the organic polymers and similar materials with heavy atom labels, in order to achieve the required image contrast.

It was tedious work, and I watched, fascinated, while her hands moved deftly through each procedure to ensure the results we were looking for. 

She placed the sample in the large microscope and closed the door tightly. “Here we go.” 

As a precaution, there was a magical dampening field within our lab, to counteract our natural energy that could possibly interfere with the operation of the equipment we used. It allowed us to access electrical components with little to no injury. There was always a threat, though, when the electron microscope was in use. The thrum of power when it was activated always caused us to shudder, especially Lupin, who kept as far away from the machine as he could be and still remain within the lab. 

After several minutes, an image appeared on a computer screen. Hermione typed something on the keyboard and whispered, “ _Amplifico_.” The picture on the screen was enlarged to three times its already augmented size. 

Groupings of seed-like clusters in varying shades of grey were revealed. 

She typed quickly, and the image was shifted to the left side of the screen while a multitude of pictures flashed on the right side. “What are you doing?”

“Comparing known images of viruses and bacteria, to see what we have here.”

Since the microscope was now powering down, Lupin approached on her right. “Focus on the strains of plague.”

Hermione typed once more, and the images scrolling by slowed until they stopped. “ _Yersinia pestis_ ,” she muttered, then frowned. “But this makes no sense.”

The niggling on the back of my neck agreed with her. Plague was usually curable with antibiotics, with a ninety percent success rate. Why were those people dying? “What do you suspect?”

“In nineteen ninety-nine, the U.S. government determined that this strain,” she pointed to the screen, “Pneumonic plague, was considered to be a ‘possible, but not likely’ biologic threat for terrorism, as it is difficult to acquire a suitable strain to weaponise and distribute it.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Seed stock is difficult to obtain and to process. The heat, disinfectants and sunlight alone render it harmless. That’s what doesn’t make sense.” 

“Check the other samples,” I demanded. “Maybe there is a variant.”

Nodding, she set about preparing the other samples for the electron microscope. 

That was when Lupin pulled me aside. “I told you, something is off about this.”

I shrugged out of his grip on my arm. “Unless you can tell me what ‘this’ is, you may keep your fears to yourself.”

He growled, and I did a mental calculation of when the next full moon was to occur. Two weeks. So, he was getting antsy.

“Severus, I smell...” He looked hesitant, as if he didn’t want to admit something. “Magic.”

“Don’t be preposterous. There hasn’t been any recorded history of the Wizarding world coming into contact with Muggles during any of the plagues past.”

“That we know of.” Lupin tends to pull on his right ear lobe when he was frustrated or embarrassed. “What if...” He glanced around, as if afraid someone were listening. “What if the reason for all those instances of plague was due to a witch or wizard seeking retaliation for some slight or another?”

I hated giving the idea credence, but it was entirely possible. “Then explain to me why the Dark Lord did not engage in this sort of warfare?”

“Why slaughter your future minions? No one can adore you or kiss your arse if they are dead.”

“Inferi can,” I argued, though it was a far stretch to say that the zombie-like creatures adored their master.

“Voldemort was not the only Dark wizard, Severus; you know there are some that still live today.”

I did—several in fact, myself included. “What are you saying, Lupin?”

“Gentlemen?” Hermione’s insistent voice sent another shiver of apprehension through me.

Lupin and I stood on either side of her and stared at the new image on the screen. “One of the patients had Septicaemic plague.”

“Meaning what?” Lupin asked.

“There are three types of plague,” she explained. “Bubonic, Pneumonic and Septicaemic.”

Merlin, I could feel a lecture coming. 

“Bubonic, or the Black Death, is more prevalent and spread through zoonotic means, such as an infected flea bite. People infected usually die within four days, without treatment. Pneumonic is contracted through the inhalation of fine infective droplets and can be transmitted from human to human, without the involvement of fleas or animals. If not treated early on, patients have anywhere from two to four days to live. Some, only thirty-six hours.”

“Christ,” Lupin muttered and shook his head.

She grimaced, and I knew she had saved the worst for last. “Septicaemic plague is more of a concern. It’s usually contracted through the bite of an infected rodent or insect, but can also be contracted through an opening in the skin or infected saliva from another human—like via cough. Untreated, septicaemic plague is usually fatal. Early treatment with antibiotics reduces the mortality rate to between four and fifteen percent, but patients that contract this strain must receive treatment within twenty-four hours, or death is inevitable.” Her eyes darted to the floor, as if looking at either of us would cause her pain. “Despite it’s being treatable, it has a high mortality rate because it’s not easily detectable. In some cases, death occurs before any symptoms appear, even on the same day it is contracted.”

“Bloody hell!”

My thoughts exactly. “Have you calculated the hypothesized rate of contamination based on your findings?”

Rubbing her temples, she blew out a heavy sigh. “I can’t. I don’t know where or who patient Zero is.”

Lupin looked out the barred window to the streets below. “Assume Hong Kong contains patient Zero and estimate from there.”

I nearly laughed when Hermione screwed her mouth up in disgust. “That’s highly improbable, not to mention wildly inaccurate. The data would amount to nothing.”

“Well, we have to do something!” Lupin shouted.

Hermione and I looked at him warily. “Perhaps you need a moment to compose yourself, Lupin?” I suggested with a sneer. I shifted my stance imperceptibly in front of Hermione, blocking her from the werewolf’s view. “Elsewhere.” 

His eyes widened, his actions presumably catching up with him. “Merlin, I’m sorry! I...”

I raised a brow and crossed my arms, daring him to continue. He didn’t, not even when Hermione poked her head around me and looked at him in confusion. He only nodded and quietly slipped out the door, heading in the direction of the living area we were allotted on the top floor of the hospital, which was only accessible to us three.

“He’s tired,” she reasoned and turned back to the data on the screen. “And I think he’s a little homesick.” 

“Then he is more than welcome to return to England,” I snarled. 

She laid a hand on my arm. “Just give him time to cool off.” 

“That will be a very long time in coming.” I looked at the red blinking message on the monitor. “What is that?”

She clicked a string of keys and soon brought up what seemed to be a warning: _Possible variant mutation found_.

“Identify,” she murmured as her fingers tapped.

 _Unknown. Mutation origin not recognised when cross-referenced to previously notated mutations in data banks_.

“Maybe Remus was right,” she said under her breath. 

“About what?”

“About magic being involved.”

If that were true, the possibilities—and ramifications—would be astronomical. “Is there a method by which to determine if that is the case?”

With a nod, she withdrew her wand and began drawing an intricate Arithmancy model in the air, the equation glowing as she shifted certain portions here and there. While I was proficient in Arithmancy, I’d never excelled as Hermione had. And that moment I realized why. The computation was phenomenal to behold in its complex beauty. From the calculations she included, I knew some of what she was trying to accomplish, but my esteem for her breadth of knowledge increased as I watched. Not much, mind you, but enough.

Her model complete, she overlaid the glowing script upon the computer, and the spell did the rest. Fast as lightning, the sums flashed on the screen, creating a new design of the miniscule lethal weapon we were dealing with. Several minutes ticked by until the scrolling stopped and focused on one particular image.

“There you are,” she whispered heatedly, as if she had found the answer to life’s mysteries. 

Looking over her shoulder, I observed the same picture of the bacteria from the original image, but with minute differences. Attached to the seed spores was a slightly golden coating that had magnetised certain blood cells to become adhered to it. Those blood cells not attracted to the bacteria were shaped differently, spherically-formed instead of the usual flexible biconcave disks. My God... 

“What?” 

My gasp must have been audible. Pointing to the odd red blood cells, I said, “Do you realise what you’ve done here?”

“Yes, I superimposed a sample of your blood upon—”

“No,” I cut her off. “Here.” I singled out one particular cluster of cells. “Tell me you know the difference between these two groupings.”

She gave me a scathing glare. “Yes, it’s an indicator of—” Her faced paled significantly. “Oh, God.” She quickly ran the Arithmancy model again, except she used a previous sample of her own blood in the calculation. “No!”

Staring at the screen, I could see the golden seed spores attracting every single one of her blood cells, twisting and mutating them. “It appears there was a reason the Dark Lord held the beliefs he did.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I know. That still doesn’t make it right.”

It all came down to blood lineage, that of pure-bloods versus Muggles and, therefore, Muggle-borns. Whoever had mutated these bacteria knew exactly what they would do: kill everyone that did not have the blood of Merlin running through their veins. That meant ninety-five percent of the world’s population would be completely wiped out within a matter of months, if not sooner. 

It was unconscionable, this rampant destruction. Hermione continued to stare at the screen, and I could tell she was lost in the calculations, the overwhelming knowledge of how many deaths that monstrosity had already caused before it reached us in our secluded location. 

She blinked rapidly before turning a worried look to me. “How are you feeling?”

Non-plussed, I posed, “Isn’t that what I should be asking you?”

She waved me off. “I’m fine. Tired, a little hungry, but good, considering.” She was gnawing on her lip again, and I had the insane urge to put my thumb there to make her stop. “Will you promise me something?”

I speculated what she would say next. No. I will not even think it. I won’t even contemplate the possibility. “No,” I grated.

Her gaze lowered in sad resignation. “Then I will ask Remus.”

In a fit of desperation, I grabbed her chin and made sure she was looking at me. I was tempted to use Legilimency, but I knew she would deem it a breach of privacy, so I refrained. “You will not continue this line of reasoning. Is that understood, Miss Granger?” I had reverted to my professorial tone to convey the seriousness of my words. 

“I must consider every possibility that I—”

“No!” I hissed. “You will be your usual swotty self, coddling Lupin and berating me for my intractable nature, and you will do it in the best of health.” 

She smiled tremulously. “You cannot stop—” 

“I can and I will!” Removing my grip, I stepped back and surveyed the whole of our work, scattered about the room. “There is a cure, and I will find it.”

Even if it’s the last thing I do.


	2. Chapter 2

With the world in the midst of a widespread pandemic, general chaos is the order of the day. There is no one to run the Muggle machinery, no electricity, no running water—nothing. There are no aeroplanes that fly, save the rare Muggle bush plane, piloted by someone who escaped the disease by means I probably don’t wish to know. I have a Rover hidden in a detached garage, but it lacks petrol, and seeing as how most petrol pumps are operated by electricity... well, in an emergency, I could conjure a spell that would bring the pump to life by spilling forth its precious fuel, but for the moment we are safe. 

Since I do my best work in a familiar environment, we now reside in my father’s Muggle house at Spinner’s End. From the beginning, I had my suspicions that the plague had originated here, in England, but I kept my thoughts to myself mostly. I knew that if I wanted answers, however, I would need to go to the source, hence our reason for returning. I keep the row house as dark and quiet as possible with six people living in it. There is myself, Hermione and Lupin, followed by the three Muggle strays Hermione found on our way from China to Cokeworth. We ran into another half-blood in Reims, the Champagne-Ardenne region in France, but he was killed shortly after joining our party by a group of scavengers that believed him to be in possession of a cure. It was my fault, I suppose, as I might have let it slip to the group of desperate Muggles that he had the means to make them well—he reminded me of Gilderoy Lockhart, the pompous arse—but I do not regret the time his life granted us as a means to escape. Callous, I know, but there it is. 

While the daylight hours are tolerable, the evening brings new dangers. Since there are few humans anywhere, the animals and foliage have retaken what was previously encroached upon territory. It is a veritable jungle outside. Wild animals that were once a zoological attraction now roam freely, breeding at will. Creatures that were never indigenous to Great Britain, such as tigers, giraffes and polar bears, have overtaken native species and made this area their home. Howler monkeys wail throughout the night, their whoops making everyone uneasy. Over the course of my experiments, I came to realise that while mammals carried the plague bacteria, they were asymptomatic. That would still make them dangerous, however, if they bit someone, passing the tainted saliva onto a human host. I keep the place heavily charmed to prevent the animals from intruding or other Muggles from possibly finding the house, but still... it is unnerving. 

Lupin does his part. Because I have no supplies with which to make Wolfsbane potion, he must endure his monthly transformations outside the perimeter of the wards. While transformed, he tends to rid the surrounding area of some of the more volatile creatures. Once, I even found a dead low-land gorilla on my doorstep, the body riddled with long gouges and deep fang marks. Lupin lay in the grass off to the side, his own body badly bruised. It was apparent that he had taken nearly-fatal punches to his back, torso and thighs. Like a good dog, he had brought me his kill and dumped it at my feet before transforming.

Though Lupin’s behaviour was beneficial, Granger scolded me for encouraging it, arguing that he would do irreparable damage to himself some night, that he would be too injured and beyond mere healing charms. I ignored her outrage, especially when I realised that, while in the form of a werewolf, Lupin would mark his territory—the row house and immediate area—with strong urine, repelling most, if not all, four-legged intruders. It’s disgusting and foul-smelling, but it keeps the more territorial of creatures away. 

The three Muggles—a woman, Rachel, her son, a teenage boy named Jacob, and a middle aged man, Ilie, who hails from Romania and speaks almost no English—do as much as they can, limited as they are. They are exceptionally quiet for Muggles. Besides his previous military duties, Ilie must have done some sort of plumbing in his native homeland, for he has rigged a pump and pulley system that allows fresh water to be available to us, should we need it. Baths are infrequent, and showers are unheard of. Seeing as this is March, however, there is not much cause for such a luxury. If it were summer, I would encourage those who cannot do magic to cleanse themselves regularly. 

The Muggles show no fear around Lupin, Hermione or myself, though they were hard pressed to trust us in the beginning. Of course, Granger strongly hinted that we should coax them into joining our group with promises that I was working on a cure, which was all they really needed to hear. I try to dissuade her from collecting people the way hoarders collect pets, but she argues that the more people that survive, the better the world’s chances are. In my mind, I snort at her naïveté. The world has already gone to Hell; take a look around you, witch! There is nothing but an overgrown botanical garden for miles where there was once an industrial town. If things get any _better_ , we’ll be strangled in our sleep by the creeping vines. 

We avoid using magic when there is another alternative. The wards I have created make the area surrounding the house look derelict; they also have the effect of discouraging any pillagers with a strong impulse to stay away. Anything stronger, and I fear the resulting signature residue will draw foragers of the human and non-human variety. I want to avoid detection as long as possible. I don’t fear Muggle interlopers; if Hermione had her way, she would invite them all in for tea and keep them in a menagerie until she was ready for them to repopulate the earth, as if she were an altruistic version of bloody Noah. Six of us, living in a two up-two down row house is too crowded already. There is no more room at the inn, metaphorically or literally. I dread others finding us, however: those of the Wizarding world, even though we seek pure-bloods. Enough Death Eaters have been sent to Azkaban that, if they were free, they would not hesitate to send me to greet our deceased lord, with the plague as widespread as it is. 

The Muggles could go elsewhere but they would be dead within a month. They know I have the power to keep them alive, you see, along with Hermione. On a monthly basis, I make the potion that allows them about thirty extra days before they start showing the symptoms again: the blinding headaches; the whooping cough that causes some to retch, the mucus tinged with blood; the fever and chills; the black buboes for some, depending on the strain of plague they have contracted; lethargy; hypotension; seizures. Without my palliative measures, they would have died long ago—something I won’t even contemplate when it comes to Hermione. She is too important—to the world, to those Muggles that have come to care for her... to me. After all, she’s the one that found the possible cure.

~ ~ ~

“I can’t isolate the properties of this protective coating,” I growled, frustration mounting in my voice. I withdrew the slide and replaced it with another. The same damn thing. Why was the compound so familiar? What was I missing?

“Severus, you’ve been at this for ten hours straight.” Hermione’s gentle hand was placed on my shoulder and, with a small nudge, she set me off my stool. “Get some rest.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” 

It was thoughtless and insensitive of me to speak like that, but I was exhausted and the situation growing more dire by the hour. Frustration always made my tongue sharper, and I could tell I had made a grave error when I heard her small gasp. 

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly and I was transported back to another time when I begged for forgiveness for my wayward remarks. The look in Hermione’s eyes was very much the same.

But the words were different, as was the woman standing before me. “Fine,” she muttered. “Work yourself to the point you can no longer sit upright. See if I care.” She turned her back on me and started preparing another sample for the microscope. 

I reached out for her, but was stopped by Lupin’s hand on my shoulder. “If you know anything about Hermione, you know she has a wicked temper. Let her cool down.”

Shrugging off his touch, I sneered at his presumption that he could give me advice. “Go to hell.”

“You’re an arse,” he snarled in a low tone, pointing his finger at me. “And you’ll bugger this up like you did things with Lily.”

I don’t remember exactly how things transpired next; I was in a black rage. I do recall that Hermione was eventually between Lupin and me, trying to separate us, one of her hands on each of our chests. Lupin sported a bloody lip.

“Stop!” she screeched. “There is a tremendous amount of work to be done, and you’re both acting like immature adolescents!”

I had this manic desire to point to Lupin and say, “He started it,” but that would just lend credence to her observation. Instead, I backed away, huffing. “Keep him away from me.”

“She won’t have to try hard,” Lupin spat and returned to cataloguing all the specimens we had retrieved. 

As if returning to my respective corner after a boxing match, I went back to studying the compound that coated the plague spores, rendering them nearly indestructible. Hermione still stood next to me, and I could feel that she wanted to say something more but refrained, for which I was thankful. The mood I was in would not have allowed for any charitable feelings. She eventually sat on the sofa to write letters and send them off to Potter, the Weasleys and the Ministry.

Three hours later, with a mind-numbing headache and blurry eyes, I sat back and wanted to smash the equipment before me. Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. I had cast _Lumos_ to study its resistance to sunlight, and the coating had grown even thicker. I’d alternated between heat and cold to see if either would have an effect on it, but with heat, the coating had actually made the bacteria grow at such a phenomenal rate that they had overtaken the slide. Cold had only halted the progress but not destroyed it. 

“Severus?” Hermione’s voice intruded into my morose thoughts. 

“What?” I snapped.

She sent me a glare but beckoned me to look at the screen. “I think I may have found something.”

Lupin dropped what he was doing, and we both huddled around her.

“When I introduced the bacteria to Remus’ blood, nothing happened.”

“Ironically, it may be my lycanthropy keeping me healthy.”

The monitor showed dormant spores amongst Lupin’s red blood cells, none of them absorbing any of the nearby healthy cells to produce the plague bacteria. On the contrary, they were equally repelled by the biconcave discs—sporting fairly deep central indentations, which marked them as lycanthropy cells—and the sphere-shaped cells we had dubbed the Merlin gene. Lupin’s being a half-blood _and_ a werewolf had saved his worthless hide. 

“Now, watch this.” Hermione siphoned a minute amount of blood and placed a drop on the Petri dish containing Lupin’s blood. “If I add my blood...”

We watched, fascinated, as her normal red blood cells spread around Lupin’s and the lycanthropy cells began absorbing them, changing them, yet the plague bacteria remained dormant. I was so focused on the screen, I didn’t see Lupin back away until I heard his voice behind us.

“I refuse to bite you,” he whispered harshly, staring at Hermione. 

“Quit being dramatic! No one asked you to bite her.”

Hermione gave the wolf a wry smile and nodded. “Severus is right. Watch.” Hermione removed the Petri dish with Lupin’s blood and replaced it with another. “This is Severus’ blood.”

Both spherical cells and flexible biconcave discs were present, indicating my half-blood status. When the plague spores were introduced, they attracted only the biconcave red blood cells, not the Merlin gene. 

“Severus is susceptible, but it’s highly unlikely he would get more than a cough or fever before his body began repairing itself and creating its own antibodies,” Hermione said, pointing to the infinitesimal amount of cells that were being destroyed by the plague bacteria. “And, if I add my blood...”

Again, she dropped a sample of her blood to let it mingle with mine and, as with Lupin’s, the progression slowed because of the spherical Merlin cells. 

“My speculation is that, were we to use a sample from a pure-blood, the bacteria would remain like in Remus’ case: in the blood, but causing no damage,” she said quietly. “Theoretically, donations of blood serum from a half-blood would keep a Muggle alive. I’m unsure what the long-term effects of a pure-blood exchange would be. Maybe nothing. Maybe it would eradicate the altered plague bacteria completely.” She shrugged. “I just can’t tell without any testing; I can only provide an estimate.” 

“Have you determined what type my blood is?” I had never had this done before.

She nodded. “We’re incredibly lucky; it’s O negative, the universal donor.”

“What does that mean?” Lupin asked.

“It means that Severus can donate red blood cells and plasma to most any human, Muggle and wizard alike, without any adverse interactions.”

“Joy,” I drawled. 

Lupin rubbed the back of his neck and gave Hermione a sheepish look. “I would donate—”

“Trade the destruction of the human race with the creation of a world populated almost entirely of werewolves?” I stared at him as if he were mad. “I think not.”

“Well I don’t see you offering up yourself as the local blood bank!” 

Without much thought, I rolled up the sleeve on my right arm. “How much do you need?”

“Oh, this is bollocks,” Lupin spat. “You mean to tell me that you’re doing this out of the kindness of your black heart?”

I didn’t bother to look at him. “You know nothing about me.” I held out my arm for Hermione. “Well? Time is of the essence, is it not?”

She snapped out of her stupor and wrapped a tourniquet around my bicep. “How much do you weigh?”

“A little over twelve stone.” I pumped my fist as I watched her hook a long, clear tube into a rather large plastic pouch. 

“Hmm, good.” She inserted one end of the needle into the tube until I heard it click, then uncapped the other end and searched for a vein. “I’m going to collect about seven hundred and fifty millilitres of blood, and separate the plasma. Whatever potion you create will need to have both to be effective.”

When the needle slid into my vein, I felt a twinge, but that was it. “We’ll be leaving this place at some point, yes?”

Poised over her work, she nodded. 

“I want to return to England to test some theories that cannot be analysed here.” 

“I’ll give you a week to come up with something. By then, you’ll be able to donate some more blood again before we go.”

Lupin shifted uneasily. “How will we keep it fresh?”

“We can cast a long-term Freezing Charm on it. It’ll keep about four hours once it’s thawed.” 

It took about forty-five minutes to fill the pouch, and by then I was extremely light-headed. This was remedied with a glass of orange juice and ginger nuts that were thrust into my hands. 

“I want you to lie down for a while. Rest. Sleep, even.” Hermione pushed me towards a camp bed which we had set up in the laboratory for experiments that needed to be constantly monitored. 

I sat without protest. I was groggy and absentmindedly drank the liquid and chewed the sugary biscuit. Swallowing the last of it, I lay back and closed my eyes.

~ ~ ~

“Do you ever wonder if there is an afterlife, Severus?”

I stop stirring for a brief second and then carry on. I am wary of this particular mood, which has been increasing as the weeks progress. “I believe that neuro-synapses misfire when one is dying and, in all likelihood, produce the common ‘bright tunnel of light’ that is so often mentioned by those who claim to have died and then been revived.”

She did not turn her head to look at me, only continued to stare at out the lone window that is in the cellar for ventilation. “Do you believe in God?”

With a small flick of my wand, I adjust the heat so that the potion will simmer, move from the table to the camp bed she is reclining on and sit across from her on a low stool I found in my garage. “Why are you having these dismal thoughts, Hermione?” I place my hand on her forehead but feel no fever. 

“I’m fine,” she says in a testy manner and removes my hand from her head but keeps hold of it. “I just wanted to know what you thought.”

“Why?”

Her long, graceful fingers trace the lines of my palm, and she watches their movement, transfixed. “I wondered if I would see you there. _After_.”

My hand curls until it is grasping hers, tightly. “What do you mean, _after_?”

She lifts her head and gives me the most peculiar look. “We all die, Severus. Some just sooner than others.”

If I have my way, she will never die, never grow old, never perish. But that is unrealistic, obsessive even, and we both know it. I can’t keep her young and vibrant. I can’t keep her as an insect trapped forever in amber, never aging. I can’t keep her healthy. 

I can’t keep her.

~ ~ ~

The morning we left China is one I will never forget. We had miniaturised all the equipment that could be reduced in size. Hermione was somewhat despondent that we could not take the electron microscope, but was assuaged by the fact that we could take the laptop computer with us, since it didn’t take up much space even if not shrunk five times its normal size. All our pertinent data resided in a separate casing that she called a ‘hard drive’. Hell if I knew what it was; I was just trying to keep up with the Muggle technology, feeling wildly inadequate most of the time. Late the previous evening, I had developed a formula that could tentatively be utilised to transfuse the palliative measure to a person with symptoms. It had yet to be used on an actual individual, but I suspected we would not fall short of volunteers once we arrived at our destination. 

Unfortunately, the day we left also coincided with a full moon. I prepared enough Wolfsbane so that that month’s cycle wouldn’t cause much damage, but I couldn’t produce more once we were on the move. There was nothing for it, however. The stench wafting into our lab, even with a Shield Charm and others to mask the smell, was overpowering. I also wanted to get Hermione away from the contaminated area, since the pathogen was airborne. The longer we lingered in Hong Kong, the more susceptible she was to infection, regardless of what preventative measures she took. 

We had agreed that I would make a Portkey that would take us to Bucharest, Romania, where I had distant Muggle relatives. As well as the place being familiar to me, moving there would give me an excuse to check on them. Tapping a paper lantern I’d happened to find in the rubbish bin, I muttered, “ _Portus_ ,” with our destination in mind. It glowed blue for a brief moment, trembled and then became still. 

It only occurred to me after we had landed in Piaţa Unirii, the city centre, that unless I had a specific residence in mind, future Portkeying or Apparating would probably be out of the question. This idea was confirmed when I saw piles of refuse smouldering on several of the city streets. I meant to approach one such heap, but Lupin held me back.

“Snape,” he said quietly, his gaze darting to another charred mass further up the road. “It’s not rubbish.” He swallowed and looked like he was about to become sick. “It’s the dead.”

This time, Hermione bent over and retched, emptying her stomach of its meagre contents. The stench and general chaos were just as bad as in Hong Kong, if not worse. There were no pedestrians. Certain buildings were marked with large black X’s, as was much of the signage in the surrounding vicinity. It was still quite early in the morning, around five, and while the area was dim, what little light shone illuminated the devastation the plague had caused. 

“Are you feeling—” 

“I’m fine,” Hermione grunted. She slowly stood, her right hand clutching her shirt, her left covering her nose and mouth. “Let’s not do that again,” was her muffled response.

“Agreed,” Lupin said with a glare in my direction. 

Instead of arguing with the shabby beast, I trod up Bratiănu Bulevardul, listening for Hermione’s light footsteps behind me. I was familiar enough with her mindset to know she would not want my help at that point in time, and she seemed to take comfort in the fact that I would not press her about the status of her health unless I deemed it necessary. Keeping that in mind, I inconspicuously slowed my steps to allow her to catch up with me. I honestly didn’t care if Lupin slept in a barn.

We traversed to Regina Elisabeta Bulevardul, passing by scenes similar to what we had witnessed upon our arrival. More black X’s on buildings, business and residential alike. Turning the corner onto Calea Victoriei, I noticed an ornate three-level building with a dome atop the roof. _The Hotel Capsa_. There were no X’s on either side of the hotel, and there were even a couple lights on. Perfect.

I glanced sideways at Hermione, noticing she was taking in the state of the building as well. “I bet they have nice, soft beds,” she said wistfully.

“More than likely.” Cautiously, I approached the door, only to find it locked tight when I tried to open it. Withdrawing my wand, I murmured, “ _Alohomora_ ,” and the deadbolt and electronic locks released, allowing the wood and glass double doors to quietly swing wide. 

The entrance hall was deserted. By this time Lupin had joined us, and we set out to investigate the interior. The modest foyer emptied out into a blazingly brilliant white atrium with a skylight overhead to add illumination to the area. There were rows of windows on each side, presumably attached to rooms, and at the end of the extended hall stood a set of glass doors leading to other rooms. Potted plants that had been positioned in certain areas for aesthetic reasons now sported nothing more than brown, brittle leaves, possibly not having been watered in weeks. 

We were about to search behind the reception counter when we heard the unmistakable sound of someone engaging the bolt on a rifle off to our left. “ _Haltă_!” 

Slowly, we all raised our hands and turned to face a dishevelled man in some sort of military uniform, pointing said rifle at the three of us. He shouted something, though I had no clue what he said, since I don’t speak Romanian. With the tip of the gun barrel, he pointed towards the door, obviously eager for us to leave. 

“Do either of you have quick access to your wands?” Lupin muttered out of the side of his mouth. 

“If you distract him,” Hermione replied, “I can slip my wand from my sleeve.”

Gryffindors, in my honest and unbiased opinion, tend to gallop impetuously into danger with an unholy thrill. Hence, I didn’t bat an eyelash when Lupin darted to the left, knowing he could very well earn himself a bullet. It did allow Hermione to retrieve her wand and cast a _Stupefy_ on the obnoxious Muggle, but not before he fired off one shot.

The bullet ricocheted off the marble floor, and Lupin yelped. Ha! The reckless lunatic. Now I would be responsible for digging out the tiny bits of metal that had buried themselves in his calf and ankle. 

Hermione ran to Lupin and looked over his right foot. “Are you okay?”

“Burns, mostly,” he said between gritted teeth. He was on the ground, clutching his injured leg. “Is he secure?”

Wand in hand, I approached the Muggle and nudged him with the tip of my boot. Nothing. I deftly relieved him of the firearm and emptied the rounds from the chamber, letting the shells slide into my palm.

“How did you know to do that, Severus?” Hermione asked. “You don’t strike me as a wizard who would study Muggle firearms.”

“Someone didn’t pay attention in Muggle Studies, I believe,” I taunted her. “Chapter Two: Basic Muggle Defences—Hand-to-hand Combat, Firearms and Gardening Equipment.”

Her snort of laughter echoed to the high ceiling. “Seventh year, right?” At my nod, she smirked. “On the run, camping with dirty, smelly boys, destroying Horcruxes. Any of that ring a bell?”

“Can someone—I really don’t care who at this point—get this shrapnel out of my leg?” Lupin groused. 

“Yes, it rings an annoyingly _loud_ bell, Miss Granger,” I hissed, hating to be reminded of that year. “One sounding exactly like my death knell!” 

She blanched. “We were all standing at death’s door, Severus. Harry most of all.”

My eyes narrowed, and I wanted to throttle her. “You dare to compare my suffering with his? The Arrogant Whelp Who Lived?”

“Any help here? Please?”

“How dare _you_!” She was fuming now, hands on hips. I didn’t know whether to be livid or aroused. “Harry had to die! All you did was skulk around, tell a few lies, be an unmitigated bastard to the student population and oh, kill the only man who considered you a friend!”

Livid, definitely. “You peevish, hypercritical, anal-retentive, pedantic fusspot!” Her look of utter shock had no effect on me. “You are so blinkered that you only see the world in black and white. Wake up and smell the Thestral shit, Granger. This world is a million shades of grey.” I stepped close to her, bending low, so that she felt my breath on her face. “In the dark of night, when your deepest fears visit you, the only thing you abhor the most is being wrong.” I sneered at her gasp. “Of course, you would rather kill someone than admit it, because you despise being weak. This means your first impressions are cast in stone.” I drew back and crossed my arms, ignoring the tears gathering in her eyes. “If you had met the Dark Lord on a day that he was at his most charming, his most beguiling, I bet you would maintain that he was a saint, right up until Potter hexed him into oblivion.”

“Never mind.” I heard Lupin crawl out from between us on the floor.

Cheeks tinged with what I suspected was embarrassment, Hermione blinked and swiped at the tears that fringed her sooty lashes. She sniffed once or twice. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “Had I known you had such a low opinion of me, I wouldn’t have bothered to apprentice with you, Master Snape.” 

I cringed at the moniker she used to force distance between us. I should have enjoyed seeing her pained expression, but that was before I had worked so closely with her, watching as her mind solved riddles and complex problems, until I was in awe of her ability. I had seen glimpses of her true talent at Hogwarts but I could have never developed her potential with Voldemort and Dumbledore pulling and twisting at me as they were. I was lucky to have survived, let alone taken a student under my wing.

When I did not answer her, she ducked her head and walked over to where Lupin was trying to cast a spell that would remove the shrapnel from his leg. He was apparently having a hard time of it, so Hermione pulled out her own wand and waved it twice while murmuring. His grunt of pain and near-whimper brought an odd sort of satisfaction. Regardless, the metal was removed from his leg and banished who knows where, before she stopped the bleeding with a basic _Episkey_.

Unwilling to watch while she coddled the wounded wizard, I instead checked on the Muggle that had protested our presence. He was still lying prone on the floor, a look of fear in his eyes. I cast a Dissero Charm to translate what he and I would say and lifted Hermione’s stunner.

Free of the spell, he scuttled backwards on his arse, mumbling so fast I couldn’t understand a word, even with the Dissero Charm. I moved toward him and said, “We mean you no harm.”

He stopped his retreat and darted his gaze to the three of us. “Who are you?”

I looked back at Hermione and Lupin before returning to face the ruffled solider. “We are looking for a place to stay for a little while. Is there room?” I pointed to the corridor with windows.

“Plenty,” he said hesitantly. “Why are you not sick?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why are _you_ not sick?”

“I don’t know. My whole unit was lost, dying one by one as they tried to contain the outbreak. We...” He swallowed heavily, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “We killed those that tested positive but had no symptoms yet.”

Typical military, trying to contain the monster before it spreads and failing miserably. “Are there any other healthy people here in this town?”

He nodded emphatically. “Two more in a room on the second floor. They were tourists from Canada. The man with them died, but they still live.”

“No one else?”

The man finally stood and glared at me. “Everyone is dead! I don’t know why I live. I don’t know why those people live. Why do you live?”

What to tell this unfortunate sod? _I’m a wizard and have the blood of Merlin running in my veins_ didn’t sound like something he would believe. I settled on an altered version of the truth. “We have a special chemical in our blood that keeps us safe.”

“Maybe I have this chemical too, yes?”

I shook my head. “Highly unlikely.” I withdrew a miniaturised satchel from my pocket. “I can test your blood, though.” 

“Severus, don’t,” Lupin warned, coming to stand beside me. He looked at my wand poised to tap on the satchel. “We don’t know what he’ll do.”

“Leave off, Lupin,” I snarled and moved away from him. “Considering there are possibly very few humans in existence at this point, I think the Statute of Secrecy is a moot point.”

“Severus is right,” Hermione added quietly. She glanced at me and then away. 

I felt hollow inside. I had berated her when our tempers had flared, and yet she still maintained her support of my decisions. Decidedly odd witch, but I was grateful. Holding the satchel in my palm, I tapped my wand on the leather. “ _Engorgio_.” The item swelled to its normal size and weight. 

“Holy God!” the Muggle gasped and cowered in the alcove behind him. “You are the Devil!” He crossed himself several times, muttering prayers.

“Quit scaring the Muggle, Severus,” Lupin admonished and approached the trembling man. He held out his hand, hoping to entice the man to take it. “It’s all right; we won’t harm you.”

The man looked to me for a translation. I briefly thought to tell the Muggle, _He is a rabid werewolf and will bite your head off_ , but decided against it for Hermione’s sake. “He said we will not harm you.”

He shook his head and inched away from Lupin. “Oh, Merlin’s balls.” Striding quickly to the cowering man, I said, “ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” and caught his stiff body when he fell.

“That’s just great,” Lupin muttered. “Now he’ll never trust us.”

“I don’t need him to trust us. I want a bath and some uninterrupted sleep for once.” I levitated the Muggle’s body. “Make yourself useful and find a room key. Preferably a suite.”

“I already found one,” Hermione said from behind the reception counter. “But there are only two beds.”

“Find another.”

She narrowed her eyes. “All the rooms only have two beds. Someone will have to sleep on the sofa.”

“I’ll, erm, be out and about tonight,” Lupin said. “I can always take the sofa once I transform back.”

“Fine. It’s settled.” With a flick of my wand, I sent the petrified Muggle floating ahead of me. “Which room, Granger?”

“Three ten.” 

She and Lupin followed behind me as I traversed the steps to the third floor, since I distrust Muggle elevators. They’re claustrophobic, unlike the ones at the Ministry of Magic. By the time we reached the door leading to the room, my stomach rumbled.

“Lupin, see if there is anything edible in the kitchens.”

The tawny wizard gave an exaggerated bow. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He stood with a sneer. “Don’t treat me like I’m a fucking house-elf, Snape.”

“That’s all you’re—”

“Gentlemen, please!” Hermione huffed and unlocked the door to the room. “I know we’re all tired, hungry and irritable. Please, let’s just get through tonight without adding to the increasing body count.” She shoved her way into the room only to come to a halt. “Wow.”

That was an understatement. The room was opulent and spacious, with a super-sized bed off to the left. There were chaise lounges facing the windows, and three doors that I assumed led off into the other bedroom, bathroom and possibly a wardrobe. 

“I get that one.” Hermione pointed to the overlarge bed. She walked over, turned around, and let herself fall onto the mattress. “Oh, this is divine.” 

“Some of us still have work to do,” I pointed out. She didn’t respond and remained on the bed, eyes closed. 

I put the frozen Muggle on one of the sofas and left him there while I explored the rest of the room. Lupin had disappeared to find food, and I hoped that he returned soon with something. It was hit or miss when it came to foodstuffs; perishables quickly rotted, but tinned items could be found it one looked properly. 

The bathroom was just as resplendent as the bedroom. An overlarge tub with what looked like nozzles embedded in the sides filled most of the area. I fiddled with the taps and pressed buttons, stepping back when a motor whirred and vibrated the tub. I pressed the button again, and the noise ceased. “Strange Muggles,” I murmured as I began filling the tub for a long-anticipated bath. 

Leaving the water running, I re-entered the bedroom and noticed Hermione lying curled on the bed. I imagined she was exhausted and did, indeed, deserve a rest. I bent low to let her know I was going to be indisposed for a short while, when I observed a slight tremor shake her body. 

“Granger?” No response. I shook her shoulder. “Hermione?”

She moaned and curled even further into a foetal position. I immediately turned her over and pulled her into my arms. She was practically on fire yet she shivered. 

“Fever,” I said absently. I pried open her upper eyelid—pupil dilated and glassy. “Damn!”

“Severus, I found some...” Lupin entered the room and stopped at the sight of the witch in my arms. “What’s going on?”

I brushed back her frizzy curls and looked at the wolf in desperation. “Hermione’s sick.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s very rare that Lupin is in the house for more than a few hours at a time. He tends to prowl at night, sleep about five hours during the day then spend the rest of the remaining hours either foraging or tinkering in my garage. Occasionally, he and Hermione will corner Jacob in my library and set about tutoring him in wizard lore. For the most part, he listens raptly and I think the boy would rather face a throng of Dementors than say one negative word to either of them. He knows how lucky he is to have survived this long; I suspect he would do anything to repay us. 

When Lupin prowls, he is not only on the lookout for more food, but also other humans who have survived this catastrophe. If they made it this far, they are likely immune due to genetics or had ready access to antibiotics and were able to treat themselves in time. With his highly sensitive nose, Lupin can tell the difference, and that is key to my being able to produce the potion I give to Hermione and the others. If genetics—such as an ancestor that lived through the Black Plague in the mid-thirteen hundreds—grants a person natural immunity, then that person already has the antibodies flowing in their veins. Finding one of these types is rare, but when we do, we must make use of them. 

After stunning the _donor_ , we draw as much blood as we possibly can from them and leave them to recuperate with an _Obliviate_ to remove the episode from their minds. They awake sluggish, slightly sore and, in a day or so, are back on their feet. I only know because I had Lupin follow the first person we tried this on, and he reported that they seemed a little worse for wear, but were fine otherwise. I take their blood and separate it like Hermione did in the lab, though the process is slower due to the lack of certain equipment. I type the resulting plasma and red blood cells, and if it is O negative—I have yet to find another with my blood type _and_ a natural immunity—I keep the red blood cells. If not, I discard the blood and keep the plasma, which has the antibodies and can be neutralised into a base formula that my blood can be added to for the potion. I could use my own plasma, but I found out early on that it isn’t as effective at halting the symptoms as I had hoped. It does prolong the person’s life, but they still languish in misery.

I remember when she languished in misery.

~ ~ ~

“She needs a tepid bath,” I told Lupin and was grateful that he complied without hesitation.

The water was already running for my own bath, so Lupin just lowered the temperature. Uncaring if Hermione despised me later, I cast _Evanesco_ on her clothes and held her limp form in my arms. Quickly, I entered the bathroom and placed her in the cooled water, her moans echoing about the tiled room. Almost immediately, she began to thrash, trying to get out of the tub. 

“Hermione, we must lower your core body temperature to prevent a seizure,” I admonished as gently as I could in my panicked state. Still, she refused to stay put, so I used an old standby that I knew she would respond to. “Miss Granger! Are you incapable of remaining still?”

I know and understand the power of my voice. Truly, I do. I can charm, entice, soothe and beguile, should I wish to. I can also use it to lure and seduce, command respect and attention. I started noticing Hermione’s response to the terseness in my voice whenever I was tired or strained during our working relationship. She would stop whatever she was doing and remain still, as if listening for some sort of instruction. It was an almost Pavlovian response, the way she would immediately react to the tone as if she were ensorcelled. I can’t recall that I consciously compelled her to respond in such a way, only that she did. And I made use of it on more than one occasion, as any worthy Slytherin would. 

That was such an occasion. “Be still and allow me to help you.” On cue, she halted her thrashing and became quiescent, though she still shivered, her teething chattering. 

“Do you have any of the potion mixed?” Lupin asked while gathering towels. 

“No.” Damn. I was reluctant to leave Hermione with Lupin, but I refused to let him touch the precious ingredients. “Stay with her, I must prepare a batch.” 

Though her eyes were closed, I suspect she was listening to everything we said and she whimpered when I let go of her body. It sent a shaft of pain straight through to the centre of my chest. I wish I could’ve told her I didn’t want to release her, but the potion was vital, and I didn’t trust Lupin not to muck it up. 

“Granger, you will let Lupin keep your body submerged while I am busy. Is that understood?”

During her struggles, she had curled her fingers into the fabric of my sleeve with a tight grip. She now slowly unfurled the digits and let her hand drift below the water. Watching her hand come to rest on the bottom of the tub had a sense of finality to it and notched up my anxiety level. 

“Lupin, hold her head above the water.” He moved to my right and shifted over until he was in the same position I was. “It will take about four hours to prepare,” I told him, removing my black frock coat and rolling up the white sleeves of my tunic shirt. “If her condition changes in the slightest, call for me.”

At his nod, I left the bathroom and spelled my equipment to its normal shape. I withdrew three tubes of frozen plasma, hoping that it wouldn’t take the full four hours to thaw. I was taking no chances, however, and so set a low-level Warming Charm on them. That done, I gathered the other components of the potion and set to work, keenly listening for any signs of distress from Lupin or Hermione.

It did not take four hours, but five. The conditions for the preparation were not optimal, and, though I made few deviations from my initial research, the plasma did not react well to the Warming Charm. I had to thaw out another batch, thus wasting precious time—time during which I heard her whimper and sob from the fever that spiralled throughout her shuddering frame. I didn’t have to see it to know it was happening. I could tell Lupin was trying to soothe her as best he could but, in a moment of ill-conceived pride, I knew only the sound of my voice or the feel of my touch could ease her pain.

Doubling my efforts, I was able to finish the batch just as Lupin called from the bathroom. “Snape? She’s having a seizure, and I can’t reach my wand!”

Quickly, I made my way into the tiled room and cast a diagnostic spell over her. The fever was reaching a critical high, and she was stiff in Lupin’s arms, her legs and arms twitching. “Make sure she does not strike her head.”

“Aren’t you going to do something?” he demanded.

I narrowed my eyes. “Like what? I cannot pry open her mouth, and anything that I give her may counteract the potion I am about to give her once the seizure subsides.”

“You’re just going to let her suffer?” He grew mottled with rage. “You bloody prick! She’s—”

“She’ll be out of danger in less than fifteen minutes, Lupin, which is the approximate time a febrile seizure lasts.” I would not show him how terrified I was that there was the possibility she wouldn’t stop seizing, that all we had worked for was for naught. “Until her body relaxes, I can do nothing for her. Not even magic.”

He growled low in his throat, and I belatedly realised he needed that day’s Wolfsbane potion. I berated myself for being so distracted, no matter the reason. Instead of standing around and listening to him snarl at me, I returned to the room where I had set up my makeshift laboratory and decanted the first of the three doses of Wolfsbane into a special goblet. It started smoking the moment the foul liquid hit the metal of the cup, and I carried the steaming brew to where Lupin still held onto Hermione. 

“Here, drink this.” I shoved the cup under his nose, and he immediately loosened his arms from around her shaking frame and recoiled. 

“Must you do this now?” he hissed. “There are more important things, like—”

“Keeping her from becoming a victim of your curse. Drink it. _Now_.” I pressed the goblet into his hand and bent low over the tub to resume my place and hold Hermione. 

While Lupin gagged in the background from the disgusting taste of the potion, I began stroking her clenched jaw, hoping to alleviate some of the tension that clamped her mouth shut. After about three minutes of this, her muscles eased their rigor and she became totally limp in my arms. 

“Are you quite through?” I asked Lupin over my shoulder. He looked a little green but nodded. “Bring me the largest towel.”

He sorted through the stack and pulled one out. Slowly, I lifted Hermione from the cool water, and her head lolled onto my shoulder. Lupin swiftly wrapped her in the white cotton, careful not to linger unnecessarily on any one part. When she was practically cocooned within the towel, I carried her into the other room. 

“I need you to hold her while I finish the last step,” I instructed Lupin and bade him sit in one of the plush chairs that littered the room. 

Once he was seated, I passed my precious bundle onto his lap and carefully extracted her left arm from under the wrappings. Her bare legs hung over the side of the chair and she looked distinctly uncomfortable, but she was unconscious, and I didn’t have time to worry about the awkward angle if I was to relieve her symptoms. 

With a silver blade, I made a gash in my left wrist, the blood immediately welling to the surface. The pain was insignificant next to her suffering. I had mixed the plasma and potion prior to pulling Hermione out of the tub, so the only ingredient left was my blood, which had to be added at the last minute. 

After sealing the cut, I combined the ingredients together and stirred until the potion became yellowish-orange in colour, indicating it was ready. I poured the potion into a vial and stoppered it, then grabbed a pre-packaged syringe, opened it and removed the plastic cap from the needle, so I could insert it into the rubber tip of the vial. Holding the vial upside down, I pulled the plunger and watched as the potion was sucked into the chamber of the syringe until it was completely full. 

I wrapped a tourniquet around Hermione’s free arm, waiting until her veins appeared just below the surface. There, at the crux of her elbow, two made themselves known. I chose one and inserted the needle, depressing the plunger and watching the potion disappear into her body.

I held my breath and waited, as did Lupin.

We could tell the moment the potion began its work within her body—she started screaming. Her body bowed unnaturally, her limbs rigid, as Lupin tried to hold her and keep from injuring herself. Her cries continued until her voice became hoarse and then she fell silent, collapsing against Lupin.

It was nearly twenty minutes before she stirred. What I thought was another seizure was Hermione actually trying to sit up and being unable to do so because she was so tightly bound. “Release the knot,” I ordered Lupin, and he untied the bunched fabric at her neck.

She blinked slowly; damp tresses that were saturated with sweat and water were plastered around her face, her eyes still somewhat glassy. “What happened?” she croaked.

“You had a fever,” Lupin said quietly. 

Frowning, she touched her forehead, winced and let her hand fall limply into her lap. “Severus? Do you have any pain relieving potion? My head aches.”

“You’ve already been given a dose.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You gave me a potion? I don’t remember.”

“I gave you _the_ potion,” I told her.

Eyes widening in horror, Hermione started to shake, and I feared that the fever had returned. “But, I’ve been so careful!” she pleaded. “I took all the precautions, sterilised everything, wore gloves _and_ a Shield Charm. I can’t become sick.”

“But you have, Granger.” Her quivering lower lip was nearly my undoing. “The bacteria are airborne. It’s very likely you came into contact with them before we left Hong Kong.”

I expected her to rant and rail at the gods for this injustice. Instead, she nodded and removed herself from Lupin’s lap to stand on trembling legs, wrapping the towel around her body. “What is in the potion?”

How could she only blindly accept her condition and switch to another topic? If it had been me, the room would not have been left standing; I would’ve taken my wrath out upon it. Taking her hand, I led her slowly to the bed and let her sit before divulging the potion’s components. “Chloramphenicol, saline, essence of willow bark, the plasma base and my own blood.”

“I still hurt,” she whispered, as if she were almost afraid to admit to such a thing. “And I’m cold.”

Having consciously ignored her nudity beforehand, I now found it glaringly obvious. I wanted to cast a Warming Charm on her but I feared it might interact with the potion. “You need some warmer clothing.”

She looked down, and her cheeks turned red. “Merlin, I hope I didn’t do anything inappropriate,” she groaned nervously.

“Silly girl,” I chided gently in a low voice. “You were unconscious and unable to control your body.” I leaned in close and murmured, “Lupin has less dignity when he sheds his clothes for his transformations.”

That earned me a soft chuckle from her, which eased my mind a great deal. Before I moved away to search for some clothing, I felt her forehead and found it damp but not feverish. From her luggage, I retrieved a pair of stretchy cotton trousers, to which she had referred as ‘track pants’ in the past, and a long-sleeved blue shirt. When I handed them to her, she raised her brows in question.

“May I have a pair of knickers?”

Lupin snorted, and I sent him a glare.

Thinning my lips in consternation, I rifled through her belongings until I grabbed the first thing that looked like what she might wear underneath her clothes. This time, Lupin didn’t bother to hide his outrageous laughter.

“You’re getting closer, Snape,” he said with an idiotic grin.

I glanced at the object in my hand. A bra. Rolling my eyes, I tossed it to Hermione and continued to look through the mess of clothing until I found a pair of pink knickers. 

By gods, they were dainty! Unbidden, an image of that fabric defining the curve of her hips flitted in my mind, her body swaying as she moved towards me with a definite gleam in her eye. I quickly clamped down on my very physical reaction to that fantasy and threw the garment in her direction, uncaring if it landed anywhere near her. Not looking back, I strode to the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

I leaned my head against the wood of the door and breathed heavily. I couldn’t have that sort of reaction to the witch, but, once again, in my mind’s eye those pale pink knickers caressed the skin I imagined to be soft and warm, and my libido made itself known. I stripped, banished the used water in the tub with a flick of my wand and started the tap, increasing the temperature until it was almost scalding. At the half-way mark, I twisted the tap to stop the water and slid into heated bliss.

My insistent erection refused to abate; it bobbed beneath the surface, the head floating just above the water. It found its way into the palm of my right hand in an age-old dance I was growing weary of. 

Countless times in the past year, I had tossed off to the thought of Hermione’s lips wrapped around my prick. It was inevitable, really. Our constant and close proximity fostered such deviant fantasies, at least on my part. The witch had no idea what she did to me with a simple touch—and if I could help it, she never would—but that certainly didn’t stop my imagination from conjuring images of her poised over one of the lab tables, ready and, most importantly, willing. It was so simple, pretending she knew exactly what she did and had a deliberate intent to break down my defences. Those thoughts simplified and excused what always came next: visions of her, bent between my knees. The picture was so clear sometimes, it was frightening. I could almost see, smell and touch her without closing my eyes. Like now, I could feel the tickle of her wild mane of curls against the sides of my thighs as she slicked those pretty pink lips and took me into the hot crevice of her mouth. My grip tightened when her soft, whining purr filled my ears, replacing my own deep grunt. 

I even heard her whisper my name. “Severus…” Her tongue coiled around the base of my cock, working its way upwards to wrap the head in a velvety cocoon. 

My thumb brushed over the slit, envisioning her tongue prodding the sensitive head. Her name climbed up into my throat and I quickly bit my bottom lip to keep it stifled. I pulled upwards, almost feeling her lips slicking their way along my shaft, her tongue rimming the tip; when I tugged down, I saw her dip until she had nearly engulfed my entire length. 

I repeated the ministrations several more times, moving faster with every downwards thrust. The free hand curled around the lip of the tub tightened, restraining me from reaching down and fisting around the imaginary hair I could see only in my mind. It took no time at all for me to soil the water with ribbons of thick, white semen. 

I opened my eyes and glanced down in disgust. I _Evanesco’d_ the milky fluid and sank completely beneath the water in a masochistic effort to burn away my shame with the prickling heat. 

Things became interminably worse when I tried to think of Hermione Granger in a platonic way.

~ ~ ~

I have been adding iron, folic acid and Vitamins B and D to the last series of batches of Hermione’s potion, in hopes of increasing her energy. The chloramphenicol causes bone marrow suppression during treatment, so her haemoglobin falls, and she is left with chronic fatigue. I noticed it in the Muggles at first, how listless they would become two to three days after the transfusion. But Hermione—stubborn, wilful, Gryffindor that she is—didn’t give herself away until we reached England. I chastised her to no end, yet she gave me this look that cut me to the core.

_“I know you’ll save me. Save us.”_

If I thought my missions from Dumbledore and the Dark Lord were daunting, her blind faith is doubly so. I want to dispel her naïveté with cold, hard facts proving the chance of survival is less than fifteen percent without having the required blood. Still, she continues her research alongside mine when she is not exhausted, and I cannot bring myself to destroy that fragile thing she calls hope. 

Because it is my hope as well, though I know the reality is something more insidious.

“You’ve been staring at your journal for well over twenty minutes, Severus. Is something wrong?”

“I’m reading.”

Her little snort of amusement tells me I’ve given myself away. “Your eyes haven’t moved.”

Damn her observant nature. “I’m thinking.”

She leans against me. “That much is obvious.” I feel her hand at my side, and she curls it around my arm, laying her head on my shoulder. “Tell me.”

When did she become so familiar with me, that she feels free enough to place her hands on my person? My initial reaction is to spurn her affections but, over the course of the past year, I have learned to accept her idiosyncrasies, her way of expressing her care and concern for others. It does nothing to help shore my resolve to think of her in a nonsexual way. Giving into my selfish need to have her close, I rest my head atop hers and breathe in the floral-scented shampoo she scavenged at a deserted Tesco we happened upon in London. 

“There is something familiar about the coating on the bacteria, as if I have seen it before.” I point to the chemical equation on the journal page. “Without this coating, the _yersinia pestis_ bacteria are in their normal state: susceptible to heat, cold and sunlight. There is also some mutation of the genome when introduced to non-human mammals; they become carriers, yet are asymptomatic.”

“So, if someone were bitten by a dog infected with the bacteria, the dog would show no signs of the disease but the human would start showing the symptoms, yes?”

“In essence. It depends greatly on the species of animal. I suspect the _Aves_ class would bypass the infection entirely due to their genetic structure.”

She yawns and nods. “So, where do you think patient Zero is?”

I don’t want to contemplate the possibility, but we are logical and practical people, and shying away from facts is not in either of our personalities. “I believe they may have resided here, in England.”

Hermione straightens and looks at me. “Why do you say that?”

Withdrawing my arm from her grasp, I tap my wand on a piece of parchment in the middle of the table, creating a world map. I then highlight the U.K. and draw a spiral, increasing the diameter until it encompasses the whole of the map. “It is a centralised location, easily accessible by sea and air. And of course, there’s the Chunnel.” 

She studies the atlas and marks the locations upon which we stopped along the way. “It makes sense. We started from Hong Kong, went to Romania, then onto France and finally here. Each city we arrived at was progressively more deserted. The destruction in France laid waste to nearly everything.” 

“Muggle government was practically nonexistent there, whereas in China, there were a few officials left alive.” My finger taps on the map, indicating a lone continent. “It’s highly plausible that Australia did not have the widespread devastation that was experienced in Europe, Asia or the Americas, being that they are somewhat isolated.”

“We essentially live on an island, Severus,” she says with a snort. “Look what happened here.” Her eyes close, and she breathes a heavy sigh. “I honestly don’t think they escaped, though.” She bites her lips, and I can hear the quaver in her voice. “I haven’t heard from my parents in almost two years, no matter the type of message I sent.” Her hand covers mine, and she laces our fingers together. “I don’t think there’s anyone left.”

“No word from Potter, either?”

She shakes her head. “None.”

Then perhaps she is right—there is no one left.

~ ~ ~

When I revived the frozen Muggle, he backed away as far as he could and still remain on the sofa, his gaze darting between the three of us. I still had the Dissero Charm in place, so I could at least understand him when he prayed to God and called us all manner of ill-begotten spawns of Satan.

“Cease your racket!” I finally snarled, startling him. “You have been exposed to this illness. There is a high probability you will become sick soon, and only we can help you. Do you understand?” The man paled significantly, but nodded. “What is your name?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several times, before he managed, “Ilie Bogdanescu.” He pointed at me. “Who are you?”

“You may refer to me as Snape.” Indicating Hermione, I told Ilie, “You are always to call her Miss Granger.”

Ilie smiled hesitantly at her and said something, causing her to frown. “What did he say?”

“He said you remind him of his daughter.”

“Oh! Well, I’m honoured.” She moved to shake his hand, but I prevented her from approaching too close.

“She’s dead, Granger.”

What little colour she had left bled from her face, and she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry.” She began wringing her hands, a habit I’d noticed she indulged in when she couldn’t figure out the answer to a particularly complex question. 

“Ahem,” Lupin coughed discreetly. “Are you going to tell him who I am?”

I rolled my eyes. “Do I need to?”

Hermione sniggered, and the wolf sneered. 

“Fine. Ilie, this is Lupin. Don’t go near him. He escaped from an asylum and will kill you in your sleep if you smile at him.”

Ilie immediately dropped the beginnings of a smile directed at Lupin. When he looked at me for confirmation that he had done the right thing, I pursed my lips and nodded. 

“What did you tell him, Snape?” 

“That you tend to shed,” I said drolly. I lifted my wand to show Ilie. “I must do a test on you to see if you have the disease. It will not hurt.”

Afraid to move, Ilie sat there, his hands gripping the cushion until I was through running a diagnostic spell. He definitely had septicemic plague, the strain that could kill a person before they even knew they were ill. How he had survived this long without medical attention was a mystery. 

“You are very sick,” I told him. “Will you allow me to give you something to help?”

Ilie nodded emphatically. “You will cure me, yes?”

“No, it is only palliative, so that there is no pain. It will stop the progression of the sickness.” At his crestfallen look, I tried to reassure him. “I am conducting experiments to find the cure. Once I do, I will give it to you.”

Apparently that was good enough, for Ilie agreed and I gave him part of the remaining potion I had given to Hermione. His reaction to the potion was far stronger than hers, and he writhed in pain until the formula was absorbed into his system. When he was able to breathe without retching into the nearest rubbish bin, he glared at me and let forth a slew of epithets, including, ‘stinking gypsy’, ‘I shove your mud up the hill’, ‘may the Devil take you’, and ‘I dance on your dead relatives’. 

“I take it he isn’t pleased,” Hermione commented. 

“He’ll live for now,” I reminded her. I gave her a quick once-over. “How are you feeling?”

She grimaced but waved it off. “I’m very sore and achy. As long as I don’t move too much, I’m okay.” Her eyes softened. “But I know I would be worse off without your help. Thank you.”

“Thank me when you are not in pain,” I mumbled and returned to looking over my notes, wondering if I had missed something. 

“I’ll just find the other two in the hotel, shall I?” Lupin suggested before he left the room in search of the other guests.

To be honest, I had forgot the two Muggles residing in another part of the hotel, as I was so focused on keeping Hermione alive and Ilie from joining the piles of corpses outside the building. Checking the level of potion left, I realized I would have to reduce the dosage, if both were to receive it. 

I mixed and poured, divided and stirred, until I felt a light touch to my shoulder. I turned, and Hermione was standing very close to my left side, a tender look lighting her eyes. 

“Thank you, Severus.” She leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek.

My lungs filled with air; I know they did, because I remember holding my breath as her soft lips caressed my worn skin. When she pulled away, she tucked a lank strand of my hair behind my ear and patted my back. 

“You’ll save us, I know you will.”

As I watched her lie down on the oversized bed and close her eyes to sleep, my heart clenched in longing, because she was so giving of herself, and I wanted to touch something so pure just once in my life. 

My heart also clenched in fear.

Fear that I would utterly fail her.

~ ~ ~

“Snape? It’s almost time for me to leave.”

I hand Lupin a rucksack full of what supplies I have left, in order for him to procure what I need, should he come across an immune Muggle or a pure-blood. I have to believe that, if there is any sense of justice in this world, he will find either and bring me the means to cure Hermione. But then I remember what kind of world we currently live in: forsaken, desolate and, most of all, unfair. 

“Only three syringes?” he asks after looking in the sack. “What if one of them gets combative before I can fire off an _Immobulus_?” 

I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort not to lash out. “Don’t you think, if I had more, I would have given them to you?”

He pales significantly. “There are only three in the entire house?” 

I mentally give the wolf points for understanding the gravity of the situation. He knows that there is no way to deliver the potion without needles. The potion cannot be consumed orally, only intravenously, and if there are only three syringes left and four people that need an injection, someone will have to take their chances with a dirty needle. I cannot sterilise it for a separate dose, and conjured needles render the potion inert and useless. 

“There’s a Boots three miles from here. If you can be careful, there should—”

“Why, Severus... I didn’t know you cared,” Lupin drawls with a smirk.

Idiotic wolf. “I don’t. Hermione would have my guts for garters if any harm were to come to you.”

“I must remember to thank her for interceding on my behalf.”

“As I was saying,” I intone, “if you can get into the back of the apothecary without setting off any alarms or running afoul of the local wildlife between here and the shop, there should be a department dedicated to Muggle ailments that require the use of syringes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He closes the sack and tightens the knot to avoid any spillage. He shifts it over his neck to lie diagonally across his chest before he pauses, his eyes searching mine for I know not what. “Severus? I just wanted to say—”

“Save your pithy remarks, Lupin. I have no need or desire to hear them.”

“Would you stop being a prick for once and listen?” he growls. “I just wanted to tell you that, in case I don’t make it back, there is a letter for Hermione under the loose floorboard in your bedroom.”

My lip curls into a sneer. I don’t want her to have _his_ letter. “Aren’t you a little old to be writing love notes to a witch half your age?”

“There’s one for you right beside hers,” he murmurs. And, before I can issue a retort, his free hand cups my face, and he presses his lips to mine in a swift kiss. He disappears in a crack of Apparition before I can berate him for the liberty he has taken. 

“Did Remus just leave?” Hermione halts on the lower step of the cellar and peers at me strangely. I expect my expression is the reason for it. “Severus?”

I hear her say my name and I want to respond, but my brain is still sluggish with shock. I can feel my fingertips touch my mouth, my tongue licking at the taste of Lupin, finding it odd. I’ve had my fair share of sexual experiences with women, and even a few brief snogs with a dorm mate or two during my youthful experimental phase, but they were all encounters I had initiated. Now, within the span of a few days, both Hermione and Lupin’s affections have seemed to become more prominent. 

This does not bode well.

In the back of my mind, in the deepest part of my gut, at the forefront of my instincts, there is something in both of their actions that feels overwhelmingly like they have been trying to say ‘goodbye’ to me. And I rebel against it, even where Lupin is concerned. My senses return when I feel Hermione’s hand touch the same place Lupin did. 

“Are you all right?”

I blink several times and compose myself. “Quite.” I move away from the contact. My emotions are too close to the surface; I fear that, once set free, they will dominate my every action, and I can ill-afford the distraction they will bring me. 

“I made tea,” she says a little forlornly. 

“Yes, I’ll be up shortly.” I know I am harsh in my dismissal of her, but I need to clear my head, and her presence will only serve to divert my thoughts to a later time, when I need to sort them out _now_. 

“Is something wrong?”

I turn and snarl at her. “Can’t I have a moment to myself?”

Clearly stunned, she nods and retreats back up the stone steps, but not before I heard a minute sniff just as she closes the door. I grab an empty beaker and slam it against the grey stone wall, watching as it shatters into a thousand pieces and feeling every one of those shards pierce my heart with their reality.

Things are about to come crashing down.


	4. Chapter 4

The two Muggles within the hotel, as it turned out, were a mother and son visiting relatives. Originally, there had been a man with them, but he’d died shortly after they arrived. According to Ilie, his unit had quarantined them in another location, but when the officers started experiencing symptoms, they moved them to the hotel, where the Muggles had stayed ever since. They had tried to leave on their own, but Ilie had been ordered to secure them and, seeing how he was the only officer left standing, he’d decided to take no chances and barricade them in a room within the hotel.

Hermione was in a deep slumber when Lupin returned with the woman and boy. “Snape, this is Rachel and Jacob from Toronto, Canada.”

I glanced at them over my shoulder and nodded. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”

Rachel and Jacob looked at each other. “About two weeks,” she said. She was shaking like a leaf. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” Lupin pointed to the sofa opposite where Ilie sat.

“We really don’t know what’s going on,” Rachel stated in a panicky tone. “If you would just let us go, we—”

“You would be dead within a few days, most likely,” I told her. “The contaminate is airborne.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and the boy looked angry. “But, my husband,” she whispered. “He said he was just feeling poorly.”

“Let me describe this as bluntly as I can, since my telling you that you would most likely be dead within days did not have an impact on you,” I groused impatiently.

“Severus,” Lupin warned. 

“Don’t talk to my mum that way,” Jacob said in a heated tone, shifting to stand in front of Rachel.

“Perhaps you can explain to your mother that, if she wants to experience fevers, chills, headaches, convulsions, haemorrhaging, blood-tinged coughing and, finally, a very painful death, then by all means... she should step outside and escape. I will not stop you.”

Lupin groaned and rolled his eyes. Rachel covered her mouth to muffle the sobs threatening to break loose, and Jacob looked ready to pummel me. Tired beyond belief, I withdrew my wand and cast _Immobulus_ on Jacob just as he was about to swing. The boy’s eyes widened as he was frozen, straining against the spell, while his mother began screaming hysterically. 

“ _Silencio_!” Having tucked away my wand, I glared at Lupin. “Tell them what they are up against. If they still wish to leave afterwards, let them go. I need a drink.” Without listening to Lupin’s sputtered response, I left the room, slamming the door in my wake, and proceeded to find my way to the lounge area.

~ ~ ~

I have been staring at the tepid tea in my cup for some time now. It’s not that it isn’t to my liking; I cannot seem to focus enough to drink much of it before it cools, and Warming Charms only work for so long. Lupin has been gone for two days now, something unheard of in the past. If he were delayed, he would’ve sent his Patronus, but we have received nothing. As he has always prefaced his scavenging journeys with, “Should something happen,” or, “If I don’t return,” I did not give his statement a few days ago much weight. 

I hear a shuffle in the library and know Hermione is pacing again. She has not spoken more than a handful of words to me since my outburst. Though her behaviour should not bother me, I find that I miss the sound of her voice, how she is able to simply speak and have me captivated by the cadence, no matter what she says. I used to be this cold thing, dead inside but, with the near annihilation of the human race, I must confess that my practice of self-imposed isolation has lost its impact of keeping others at a distance. There isn’t anyone left whom I wish to annoy or irritate with this method. At this point, every life is precious, regardless of who or what they are. 

“She will make herself ill.” I have permanently affixed the Dissero Charm for both Ilie and my benefit, so I always understand him when he speaks to me. 

“Yes, I know.” I glance at his worried expression and then look away. “I don’t think she wishes to speak with me, however.”

“But you love her. Her stubbornness should not matter,” he tells me plainly.

Startled that an outsider can pick up on my emotions so easily, I curse my carelessness in hiding them. “It is not for you to understand. Our past is complicated.”

Though I do not invite him to join me at the rickety table, Ilie sits and narrows his eyes. “You have seen so much death; I can tell by the emptiness I see in you. Still, Miss Granger and the crazy wolf care for you. Why deny the love they want to give?” He shakes his head. “If I had their love, I would do anything to keep it.”

“I know for a fact that you have Miss Granger’s care and—”

“No,” he intones with a slash of his hand. “She cares for all of us, yes, but you she loves. It is the way with this woman. Always have I seen it, since the beginning, and it has grown stronger as the days go by.” He sits back and crosses his arms. “You are afraid.”

My jaw hangs slack. Ilie has never before spoken to me this way. I’m not quite sure what has prompted his words, but his behaviour is disconcerting. And what did he mean by ‘since the beginning’? We have only known him since our arrival in Romania. Is it possible that there was something to Hermione’s actions before our departure from Hong Kong? “I am not afraid,” I tell him slowly. 

Ilie rises. “Yes, you are. Afraid to tell her that...” He pauses, searching for the right words. “That your heart is hers.” He clutches at the fabric on his chest. “She needs to know this.”

I could try to deny what he sees. I _should_ deny what he suggests. But I won’t. “Why does she need to know?”

A gleam of triumph lights his eyes but is soon dampened to something profoundly sad. “Because she will not go until she has it.”

I stand quickly, in a panic. “Go where? What do you know? What has she told you?” It is not like Hermione to keep secrets from me. Ilie gives me a look full of pity, and I understand with stunning and horrific clarity what he means. “ _No_ ,” I whisper heatedly. “She will not die.”

“There is a proverb, Snape. _Death takes the good, too good to stay, and leaves the bad, too bad to take away_.”

He leaves as quietly as he appeared, and with him go any hopes of my heart remaining unscathed.

~ ~ ~

We stayed in Romania for one week. During that time, I Apparated to my relatives’ home. They had died sometime in the past two weeks, was my estimate. I dispatched their bodies with a quick _Incendio_ and, after emptying the house of any items of value, laid scourge to the area. By the time I returned to the hotel, Hermione had relapsed into another fevered state. Rachel, who had come to accept what we were without much resistance, was bathing her, while Jacob, Ilie and Lupin were gathering supplies to take with us when we left. 

I watched how gently Rachel poured the water over Hermione’s matted hair, how she cooed to the witch in her arms as if Hermione were precious to her. “Thank you,” I offered in a hushed voice, the trickle of the water echoing about the tiled room.

Rachel looked over her shoulder at me, nodded and continued with her ministrations. “I had a little girl once. She loved to play in the garden for hours; the mud would be practically caked on her skin.” Rachel gave a sad little laugh. “Gillian couldn’t wait to splash about in the bath.” Shampoo was spread throughout Hermione’s hair, and Rachel rubbed the wayward curls into some semblance of normalcy. 

I refused to ask the woman what had happened to her child. It was obviously painful for her to recall, yet she smiled with a fondness that I couldn’t understand. Asking her about Gillian would foster a bond that I did not want with that person—with anyone. “How long has Miss Granger been this way?”

“About an hour,” Rachel said while rinsing Hermione’s hair of the soap. “She has stopped shivering, though, since you’ve been here.”

“Has she?” 

Rachel gave me a knowing smile. “Come here; I’ll show you.”

Reluctantly, I knelt next to the slight woman and studied Hermione’s wan appearance. Her eyes were closed tightly against the anguish. My first instinct was to push Rachel out of the room and care for the witch myself. I admit that I am an obsessively jealous man, regardless of the person or item that I perceive to be mine. And Hermione was _mine_. For Merlin’s sake, the woman had my blood flowing in her veins, even though it looked to be of little use to her. 

“Talk to her,” Rachel instructed while nudging me with her shoulder. 

I wanted to lash out at the Muggle who was presumptuous enough to touch me, yet I dampened the urge to throttle her and cleared my throat. “Miss Granger, stop this silly display and bid for attention this instant.”

Hermione became very still and whimpered as if injured. Rachel turned to me and snorted. “You haven’t been around women very much, have you?”

“I beg your pardon? I’ll have you know that a majority of my co-workers used to be female.”

“Let me guess. They were a bit on the older side and used to your ways, weren’t they?”

“What does their age have to do with anything?”

Rachel just shook her head. “Have you ever been in a relationship?”

My lips thinned, and I made to rise, but her hand stayed my movement. Her look was imploring. “Talk to her, Mister Snape... really talk to her.”

What she proposed, that bearing of my soul, was unheard of, and I balked at the suggestion. When I spied tears fringing Hermione’s lashes, however, any reticence I felt evaporated. “Hermione?” I called softly.

It was like a dam had broken, and a sob sounded from the witch. “Severus, I hurt,” she said on a moan. 

“I’m so sorry I failed you,” I managed. My throat felt like it was closing, trying to keep all the tender emotions buried. “I swear to you, I will find a better way.”

I don’t remember when Rachel left the room, but I do remember cradling Hermione close, murmuring inconsequential things, letting the inflection of my voice soothe her. I also told her how proud I was of the research she had accomplished thus far, how the Wizarding world would be so grateful for her work in trying to cure lycanthropy, how I would refuse to let her go anywhere without me. 

When her eyes pried themselves open, I could see how tired and miserable she was. With a shaky hand, I traced her brows, finally letting my fingers drift down her wet cheeks to cup her jaw. “You will not give up, Hermione,” I ordered in a harsh whisper. “If I do nothing else in my wretched existence, I will save you. I promise.”

I placed a fervent kiss on her forehead, my eyes closed lest they give me away. Unwilling to release her, I rested my head against hers and held her, the silence only interrupted by the occasional drip of water from the tap.

~ ~ ~

There is a light tapping on my bedroom door at two o’clock in the morning. Hermione is sleeping soundly for the first time in almost three days, so I rouse myself before she wakes and answer the door to find Ilie with a strained look on his face. 

“The wolf is back,” he tells me quietly.

I nod, grab my dressing robe, don it and follow him down the narrow steps to the first floor. What I find is unexpected. “Lupin?”

The wizard is standing in a corner, staring sightlessly into the room. I say his name again and, once more, there is no reaction. In the dim light, I can only see an outline of his shape, but it is unmoving. I start to approach him, but Ilie places a hand on my chest to hold me back.

“He is not right.”

“What do you mean, ‘not right’?” I pull my wand out of my dressing gown pocket and whisper a _Lumos_. When the soft pulsing blue light shines on Lupin, I see what Ilie means.

Lupin’s hair is dishevelled, his right eye sporting an angry purple bruise, his clothes torn and no sign of the rucksack. I wager there are additional bruises underneath what fabric is left, including several broken bones. He looks like he’s gone a few rounds with a lion or tiger... and lost. I run some diagnostic spells over him and gasp at what I find.

“Ilie, there is a large black satchel in the cellar. Bring it to me.”

I hear the man scurry away. Good. I don’t want him to prevent me from attending to Lupin. “Remus?” I call hesitantly. “Can you hear me?”

Using his given name garners the response I am looking for. “Severus?” He sounds confused, as if he doesn’t know who I am. “Why are you here?”

“I live here.” I step forward slowly, until he is an arm’s length away from me. “Where have you been?”

“I-I’m not sure.” He winces when he tries to move. “I think I’ve broken something.”

The moment he collapses, I grab him under the arms and pull him to the battered sofa, where I lay him down. The moment his back touches the cushion, he yelps in pain. “You’ve done more than broken something, Lupin. I need to turn you over.” 

By this time, Ilie has returned with my bag and is cursing me for a foolish monkey underneath his breath. I mostly ignore him, banish Lupin’s tattered and soiled trousers and gasp at the wizard’s legs. Long gouges run the length of his thighs, as if he’s been mauled, and I wonder how he was still standing with so much blood loss. I angle his jaw so that I can look into his eyes, which are glazed over in agony. 

“Who did this to you?”

“Can’t... remember.” He sinks into unconsciousness before I can ask him anything more. 

From my bag, I withdraw a vial of Dittany and a salve of my own making that speeds healing. Casting a _Tergeo_ will rid his flesh of any foreign substances that may have come in contact with him in this compromised state. Since the slash wounds are akin to the _Sectumsempra_ hex, I chant the counter-curse and am relieved when the flayed skin starts to repair itself. I am aware of Ilie standing off to the side, watching in awe at the magic being worked before his eyes, but I must concentrate on the near-comatose man lying in front of me.

It is for this reason alone that I don’t see Hermione until she is kneeling beside me. “Severus?” Her voice holds a quaver. “What happened to Remus?”

I don’t answer her, though I hear the question. I am too focused on saving her werewolf. 

“Who did this to him?”

Again, I have no answer. I wish I did, especially to that inquiry. When I see her hand hover above the tawny head, I bark an order. “No! Do not touch him!”

Startled, she quickly withdraws her hand and backs away. “Why?”

I let the Dittany fall one drip at a time on Lupin’s surface wounds. “He may be contaminated.” I give her a pointed look. “Your immune system is compromised as it is.”

She nods, and I am grateful she isn’t in the mood to debate the issue. I turn to Ilie. “Was this how you found him?”

Ilie shakes his head. “He popped into the back garden and walked in the kitchen door.”

My brows crease in frustration. That cannot be; both his ankles are shattered, his left femur has a spiral fracture, and his neck is riddled with what appears to be several bite marks. It would be impossible for him to have held his own weight, let alone walk. 

“What are you thinking, Severus?” Hermione asks quietly. 

“That I might need to retrace Lupin’s steps.”

~ ~ ~

France was a disaster zone. 

I had visited _Cathédrale Saint Etienne de Metz_ in the Lorraine region once, long ago, and I deemed it a reasonably safe place to Apparate to. For once, Lupin agreed. Since I could not safely Disapparate with more than two people, I forced an image of the Gothic cathedral into his mind via Legilimency. After the location was secured in his brain, I took Hermione and Rachel with me, while Lupin took Ilie and Jacob, though Ilie was quite put out at having to travel with the _nebun cîine_ , or crazy dog.

The moment we arrived, there was Muggle gunfire ricocheting off the massive stone wall that stood on the west end of the church and separated a small chapel from the main nave. I immediately cast _Protego_ and pulled both women close while I manoeuvred through the building and into the church proper. Seeing no other Muggles, I dropped the shield and waited near the entrance for Lupin’s arrival. 

Every minute that ticked by, Hermione became more anxious. “Where are they, Severus? You said you implanted the image in his mind.”

“I did. Can I help it if the mutt can’t remember anything?” 

She sent me a glare and grabbed Rachel’s hand to keep the older woman from fretting. There was another round of gunfire when Lupin, Ilie and Jacob burst through the opposite entrance to the church. 

Once they were safely inside, I cast the strongest spells I could to deter any Muggles: Glamours, shields, wards seven hexes deep and one the Dark Lord used on his private chambers. Needless to say, no one was getting in or out unless I wanted them to. 

“Severus, the next time you sear a picture into my brain, remember to tell me which entrance you want us to use,” Lupin growled, nearly breathless from his escapade. “We ended up on the other side of the cathedral and had to dodge an attack from snipers.”

“My mistake,” I said as innocently as I could. 

That earned a heated glare from Hermione, who grabbed my arm and pulled me out of earshot. “Look, it’s one thing to antagonise Remus; he’s used to it and can defend himself against your attacks. But it is something altogether different when there are innocents involved.”

I retrieved my arm and backed her into a corner, my sadistic side delighting in the minute amount of fear I could see in her eyes. “You sorely underestimate me, Miss Granger, if you think your pious little speech chastising me for supposed negligence will go unchallenged.” I leaned in closer, until we were nose-to-nose. “I do not toy with other people’s lives, especially not now—not even with your bloody precious Lupin!” I had to step back, the urge to kiss her warring with the desire to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze. “I gave him the exact same image I’ve held for so many years. If you had done your research, you would know that according to the Greene-James Apparition principle, two persons teleporting separately from the same location to another, especially over long distances, will invariably land in different positions within the same area if they are not touching. Weight differences should also be taken into account.”

She looked suitably mortified. “I-I...”

“I’m doing the best I can, Miss Granger, given the circumstances and our resources. Take it or leave it. But don’t _ever_ accuse me of manipulating people because you think I need to satisfy some childhood grudge.” 

She was stifling a sob when I left her there and made my way throughout the nave of the cathedral to see if there were any other survivors hiding within the deeper recesses of the building. Had that episode happened before the destruction of the Dark Lord, I would have gladly let the wolf splinch himself and given no further thought to his welfare. Now, however, I was forced to walk away before I lost my temper—a frequent occurrence in these stressed times. 

Taking in the structure, I noticed there were steps leading down into what I perceived to be catacombs. Wand at the ready, I quietly descended until I reached the lowest level accessible via the staircase, only to see several niches in the stone wall, presumably where bodies of monks or priests had been interred. The air was filled with the stale smell of ancient decay and fecund earth and, for a moment, it felt like I was back in my dungeon at Hogwarts. 

A scratching sound caught my attention, and I stilled for a moment before resuming my examination of the chamber, knowing someone was watching me. Let them think me unaware. It was how I’d been able to surprise my foes more than once when I’d spied for the Dark Lord. When the shift in movement became noticeable, I turned and peered into the darkness.

“Show yourself.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before a shadow separated itself from the others. A small figure slowly approached me.

“ _Qui êtes vous_?” 

Bloody hell, another one I had to use the Dissero Charm on. I adjusted the spell to include French. “We mean you no harm. We are seeking shelter.”

“Are you sick?” The voice was clearly male. 

I contemplated telling him the whole story, but there was something exceedingly odd about the man, so I told him, “No, we are not ill.”

He moved into the dim light, and I could see that while he was filthy, he seemed to also be hale and hearty, though on the smallish side. I couldn’t tell what colour his hair or eyes were, but he smiled wide and patted his chest. “Then, you are like me!”

“Possibly,” I placated. It was difficult to discern what he meant by that statement, but my instinct was to agree so that I could find out if he would be any use to us.

He shifted from foot to foot, as if he were impatient to be somewhere. “My name is Gilliaume. I was the caretaker of the cathedral.”

“And now?”

The man moved towards the steps and started to ascend slowly, clearly waiting for me to follow. “They are all dead. Nothing for me to take care of.”

He had a point. I followed him up the stairs and back into the outer area at the entrance of the nave. “Are there others like you?”

Gilliaume shook his head. “I have not seen one. People hid in some of the other chambers within the church, but they died shortly after arriving. I buried them next to the priests. I did not think they would mind.”

I did not smell a hint of magic on the Muggle, so I was highly curious as to why he was still alive. “Have you stayed in the church all this time?”

“No, I travel in the tunnels to get food and water, to avoid the special police. I always go at night, so I will not be seen.”

“Who are the special police?” I know we had been shot at when we arrived, as had Lupin’s group, but I didn’t know the reason for the attack.

“Military. Before everyone died, they tested people to see if they were sick. If they were, they were sent away with the men in white suits, never to be seen again. If they weren’t, they were allowed to go back to their homes to stay. Now, the police shoot anyone on sight.”

We had reached Lupin, Hermione and the Muggles, and they all looked at the diminutive man with unveiled curiosity. 

“This is Gilliaume.”

Lupin lifted his nose, inhaled deeply and widened his eyes. “Snape? I need to talk to you for a moment.”

Pulling me to the side, the wolf whispered, “That Muggle has a natural immunity to several diseases, plague being one of them.”

I shifted around Lupin to study the man, who was trying to converse with Rachel in her sparse French. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. He smells different, healthy. Are you thinking—” 

We broke off the conversation when Gilliaume returned his attention to me. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Could I trust provisions from this man? Would they possibly be tainted? We had some supplies, but nothing that would spoil. Anything fresh would be welcome. I nodded to him, and he scurried off the way we had come. Lupin made to follow, but I held him back.

“He’s been living underneath the cathedral. It’s quite possible that he has a hidden cache of items.”

“Is there some place we can rest, Severus?” Hermione asked, clutching Rachel’s arm to remain upright. “I’m very tired.”

Without thought, I strode to her, picked her up and carried her with me to where I knew the monks’ cloisters to be, my previous irritation with her almost all but forgotten. Lupin and the others followed. Jacob opened the door to the cell I stopped in front of, and I proceeded inside to lay Hermione down and light the multitude of candles that were scattered about the room. It was not the most comfortable of places, the whole room being rather spartan in appearance, but it would serve for the time being. 

“I’ll go check on Gilliaume. He should have returned by now,” Lupin said quietly and removed himself—taking Rachel, Jacob and Ilie with him, for which I was grateful.

I returned my attention to Hermione. Though she had her eyes closed, she was not sleeping. Her chest was rising and falling too quickly to facilitate slumber. “How are you feeling?” I asked quietly as I sat on the edge of the narrow bed.

Instead of answering, she placed her hand on my right thigh. “I’ve been better,” she admitted ruefully. “I’m sorry I was cross with you earlier, Severus.”

Moving some of the haphazard curls away from her face, I shrugged off her concern. “You are tired and ill, Granger.”

She slowly opened her eyes and took my hand in hers. Hesitantly, she pressed a soft kiss to the centre of my palm before bringing it to rest against her cheek. “Will you ever call me Hermione when I am lucid?”

I allowed a small smile to reveal itself. “Someday, perhaps.” She nuzzled my hand as I cupped her face. “The Muggle could be useful,” I told her casually, hoping she would say nothing more. The moment she frowned, I knew she wouldn’t let it drop. 

“Useful? In what way?”

“Lupin thinks he may be naturally immune. I should test him.”

She sat up a little. “You mean he hasn’t developed any symptoms?” 

“Gilliaume informed me that he’s been burying the plague-infected dead in the catacombs for some time now. Obviously, he hasn’t been affected. There has to be a reason for this.”

“I agree,” she said, nodding absently, “but you must receive his permission to obtain samples.”

Damn her and her Gryffindor sensibilities. “Just rest and leave it to me.”

She gave me a long stare but soon nodded again and lay back against the pillow. “I trust you to do the right thing.”

As I closed the door to the cell, I formulated a plan to corner Gilliaume and extract the needed blood to test and possibly use as a more potent base for the potion.

Hermione’s Gryffindor moral streak and Gilliaume’s lack of permission be damned.

~ ~ ~

It has been two days since Lupin returned to us, and I am no closer than before to solving this enigma of what has happened to him. I would take a sample of his blood, but he has yet to allow me as close to him as I was the night of his arrival at my row house. And it’s not just me with whom he is agitated; it is everyone, Hermione included.

For now, I allow him his mood. If he continues, however, I will stun him and test him, regardless of Hermione’s thoughts on the matter. She does have this annoying tendency to be protective of those that she perceives as wounded creatures. 

If Ilie was on edge around the wolf before, he is doubly so now. 

As am I. 

His behaviour has intrinsically changed. He no longer has the affable and—dare I say it— _submissive_ personality I have come to expect from him. It is as if he is on the verge of transformation at all hours of the day. I have not seen him stop pacing, speak other than to growl, or even sleep. It’s a good thing I healed his injuries, or I’ve no doubt he would be trying to tread wherever he wanted, broken bones and all. 

Putting the kettle on for tea, I hear Hermione and Rachel descend from the second floor. I glance in the sitting room to see Lupin slowly striding back and forth in front of the main book case, the one which hides the stairwell behind it. He looks to be waiting for them, his nose high in the air to scent their approach. 

Quickly, I move to intercept. “Lupin, step away from the bookcase,” I demand.

He turns towards me, and I am filled with a terror I have not felt in years. A long line of spittle makes its way from the corner of his mouth to the floor and his teeth are bared. According to my mental calculations, it is not the full moon, only the waning gibbous, so there is no logical reasoning for this hostile display. It’s his eyes that unnerve me, though. Where they are normally a soft blue, they are now cloudy yellow, like he is caught in the midst of transformation. His back is hunched, and his hands are tearing at the hair on his head. A pitiful wail is released from his throat, and I thank the gods that I hear Hermione and Rachel pause in the stairwell.

All my memories from that time in the tunnel underneath the Shrieking Shack are brought to life once more. All the dread, fear and loathing resurface. I cautiously move towards him, drawing my wand.

“Move. Away. Now.”

An agonised sound issues from Lupin’s mouth, and I now see that he has froth coating his lower lip. He clutches at his head, as if he is trying to dig his way through his skull to his brain with no success. Taking no chances, I grab the nearest object—a Muggle spanner, presumably Ilie’s—transfigure it into a silver athamé and brandish it so it is in plain view of Lupin. 

Crouching low, Lupin looks as if he is about to pounce on me, but a moment of clarity enters his gaze. “Kill... me!” he manages through clenched teeth.

Suddenly the dagger in my hand makes me feel like an executioner, and I lower the weapon. “What is wrong, Lupin?”

Sadness permeates his look now. “I need you to kill me,” he manages between pants, “before I... kill you.”

I feel my hand shaking, my stomach churning. How many times have I been placed in this situation before? It’s as if I am standing before Dumbledore again, while he blithely asks me to take his life and ensure my position within Voldemort’s good graces. Why am I always the pawn between the chess masters of fate? I will not do it this time, however. I will not bow to their wishes, especially not when I spy Hermione peeking around a crack in the door, horror etched her features. 

“No. Do not ask this of me.” I pray to whatever deity will have mercy that Lupin does not notice Hermione or Rachel. 

But it seems that those deities are not listening, because Lupin’s ear twitches, and he swiftly turns to fix his hungry gaze on a frozen Hermione standing just inside the door to the stairwell. He licks his lips and is completely feral at this point. I reason with my conscience that this is the catalyst for my next actions.

Ears pounding with the rapid beat of my heart, I slide up behind Lupin and plunge the athamé just under his left shoulder blade, piercing his heart so hard and fast that I know the tip of my weapon is protruding from his chest. In the distance, I hear Hermione and Rachel scream, as my vision tunnels and I struggle to remain upright. The shouts continue, drawing Ilie and Jacob’s attention from the garden, and they burst inside to the gruesome scene before them.

I am sure it is all very incriminating: I’m standing over a collapsed Lupin, holding a bloody blade, while two women are yelling at me to get the hell away as they prostrate themselves over Lupin. Yes, I would convict me, too. Still holding the dagger, I lurch backwards and fall into a chair, staring at what I’ve done. I have an odd impulse to order the women to move so that I may see Lupin’s state, but I can’t make my lips move to form the words. 

As if Hermione heard my thoughts, she rises, comes to where I am sitting and slaps me across the face, hard. “What have you done?” she whispers heatedly.

I blink repeatedly until I can focus clearly on her. “I saved you,” I mutter.

She covers her mouth with her hand and stifles a sob before turning her attention to Rachel. She breaks down when Rachel shakes her head after feeling for Lupin’s pulse. Dead. Lupin is dead—the thing I had wished for when I was a malcontent teen has been granted to me. But I do not wish it now, even though I do not hold the tender feelings I believe he held for me. 

The curse Voldemort flung Lupin’s way years ago did not kill him. This warped version of the plague did not kill him. Not even his traumatic monthly transformations killed him. 

No... it is me who has ended his all-too-brief life.


	5. Chapter 5

A day after Lupin’s death and I am sitting at the kitchen table, trying to hold the teacup to my mouth, but the shaking of my hand prevents me from taking a sip, lest I spill most of it on my oft-mended robes. I slipped a Calming Draught into the liquid earlier, but it will do no good if I cannot consume it. 

Ilie is sitting next to me in much the same condition. “He was sick.”

More than likely, I think. I nod absently, saying nothing. 

“You did what needed to be done.”

And there it is. I am always regulated to that miserable task: doing what cannot be done by others because of their softer emotions. Due to this, I am perceived as a cold, cruel, petty-minded bastard with unquenchable ambition. Hermione probably thinks that I have finally lost my obsessive mind and killed Lupin in a fit of jealous rage, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

The truth is so much more dreadful.

Something happened to Lupin, wherever he went. I plan on doing an autopsy of sorts, to find the source of his madness, and maybe, through the results, I can find out what he knew, where he went and what exactly caused him to exhibit symptoms that had him turning on us. I suspect many things, including something that I hope is incorrect. 

“Do you need help with the wolf?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale heavily. “Yes. Miss Granger will not speak to me at the moment, and I don’t wish to upset her with the examination of Lupin’s remains.”

“She does not understand.” 

“She understands more than you think,” I counter. It’s just that she has drawn the wrong conclusions—ones I will not disabuse her of.

“Then why is she angry with you? You saved our lives.”

Tea untouched, I rise from the table and move towards the cellar. “It’s complicated.”

Ilie shakes his head. “Always this ‘complication’.”

Yes, always this complication.

~ ~ ~

The potion I created from Gilliaume’s pilfered plasma base was extremely successful, though it didn’t eradicate the plague. 

At first, I tried to convince Gilliaume that his assistance was vital, and when that didn’t work, I _took_ what was needed. Thank Merlin, I was not alone in that decision, as Lupin heartily agreed that a simple _Obliviate_ would remove the episode from the Muggle’s mind.

After cornering the wily man, I extracted as much blood as I could safely take and then allowed Lupin to deal with him, watching him to see if there were any adverse side-effects. I concentrated on separating the plasma from the red blood cells, testing it for antibodies—there were plenty—and then neutralising the base for the potion. When I added my blood, the potion turned a more satisfactory colour, one that denoted a purity of ingredients, as opposed to the one that only had my blood and inferior base to work with. Sample ready in hand, I approached Ilie as a test subject.

“I think I would rather die than suffer like that again, Mister Snape,” Ilie told me warily.

Exasperated, I demeaned myself by pleading with the Muggle. “I have improved the formula, and there should hardly be any pain.”

Though his look was dubious, he nodded. “This one time. If it does not work, I will not let you inject me again.”

“Fine,” I groused with a wave of my hand. After prepping his arm, I slowly injected the new serum into his bloodstream.

Regrettably, he still trembled and cried out in pain for several long moments, but his reaction was considerably milder than the first time I’d given him the potion. An hour later, however, the results were astonishing. 

Ilie said he felt as if he had been reborn, as if he had been given a new lease on life, whatever that meant. He no longer felt on the verge of illness, troubled by fatigue and constant stomach cramps. He even went so far as to embrace me. I accepted his gratitude, though I remained stiff in his arms. 

In quick succession, I injected Rachel and Jacob. They both experienced much of the relief that Ilie had. I was exceedingly pleased with that outcome. Unfortunately, my last patient would be Hermione, and I knew there would be questions as to how I’d come about the altered formula. Ones I was not prepared to answer.

~ ~ ~

Using _Wingardium Leviosa_ , I levitate Lupin’s body and head towards the cellar where I have set up an examination table. Just as I open the door, I hear Hermione’s voice.

“I’d like to help.”

Without looking at her, I tell her, “Wait here,” then proceed down the stone steps, Lupin’s body floating in front of me, and place him on the table. I glance at Ilie, and he seems to know what I am silently asking. Once he leaves, I call for Hermione. “Granger, shield yourself before you come down.”

She murmurs the spell and descends to where I am standing. I am in no mood to argue with her, so I say nothing. Instead, I shrug off my outer robes and frock coat, leaving my torso clad only in my white linen shirt. During this time, she says nothing, only watching me with those expressive eyes. I unbutton the cuffs, roll the sleeves up and secure them in place with a charm. Casting a Shield Charm upon myself, I select different instruments and lay them on the workbench for easy access once I begin.

First, I denude the hair on Lupin’s head with a flick of my wand. I hear a stifled whimper from Hermione, but ignore it. I know she had feelings for the wolf, though I don’t want to know to what extent those feelings went. I imagine this must pain her—my killing him and then attempting to sift through his innards to find out what exactly happened to him. 

As I place my wand on his head and mutter a charm that will allow me to see into his brain without having to actually cut into the skull, curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you down here?”

When she doesn’t answer, I dart my gaze to where she stands, arms wrapped around her stomach. She seems not to have heard me, so I ask a different question. “Why do you wish to help?”

She blinks as if she has just awoken. “I-I wanted to...” 

“To what?”

She swallows nervously and splutters, “To find out what caused him to act that way.”

I straighten and stare at her. “What way? You don’t believe I killed him unprovoked?”

She finally looks at me apologetically. “There was something wrong with him, wasn’t there?” At my slight nod, she continues. “I heard him asking you to kill him. At first, I didn’t want to think that you would ever consider his request. But now?” She shakes her head and gives Lupin’s body the once over. “I truly believe he would have killed Rachel and me if you hadn’t stopped him.” 

Returning to my work, I tap Lupin’s forehead in three spots. “He was mad, Granger, as if he were being tortured before our eyes.” A picture emerges from the prone wizard’s head, and there is evidence of swelling in the brain tissue. I frown heavily. “And here is our proof that he was in exceeding amounts of pain.” I point my wand to four areas where the damage is more pronounced. 

“Evidence of encephalitis.” She peers closer. “That’s odd. He never complained of headaches or anything of the like.”

“He had been gone for two days and returned to us in a broken state. Sudden onset is a high possibility.” I transfigure a nearly featherless quill into a syringe. I prefer an actual, naturally-made syringe to a conjured one, but since Lupin is dead, it will not matter. “I need to collect some of his blood to analyse.” 

“Let me.” She takes the syringe and inserts it near his jugular, biting her lip in concentration. 

Her behaviour is confusing sometimes. “Why are you doing this?” I ask again, unsatisfied with her previous answer.

Tears well in her eyes but they do not fall. “I wanted to prove to you that I don’t blame you for what happened with Remus.” She blinks and sniffs. “Whatever was afflicting him, he looked like he could’ve easily killed us without a second thought.” The syringe filled, she hands it to me. “Is that enough?”

I know it is without looking. “Do you know where his wand is?”

“No, but I will find it.” 

“Good. Perhaps a _Priori Incantato_ will be useful.”

She nods and backs away, heading for the stairs. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.” 

I look over my shoulder at her, narrowing my eyes. Her actions are peculiar, as if she is trying to hide something from me. “Hermione...”

Giving me what she thinks is an innocent expression, the witch shrugs. “What?”

“There is something you are sussing out, and I’m not sure I like the look of it.”

“Aren’t I always thinking things over, Severus?” she says almost coyly. 

This is not like her. To be honest, she is dreadful at subterfuge. Her attempts at hiding the truth are akin to a five year-old’s explaining an Arithmancy equation: appalling. “You are contemplating doing something foolish,” I say.

Her lips purse. “Not something foolish. Something... constructive.”

I snort. “You are constructive enough already. There is no need to—”

“I feel useless, Severus!” she blurts out, causing me to be taken aback. “You and Remus—” She falters for a moment on his name, but then composes herself. “Everyone in this house is more productive than I am. You, Ilie and Jacob, do most of the scavenging or anything remotely requiring strength, while Rachel and I tend to the house. I feel like fucking Donna Reed!”

“Donna Reed?”

“A housewife from the fifties,” she says with a wave of her hand. 

“I know who she was,” I drawl.

She glances quickly at me and nods. “Yes, well, the point is, I feel useless, cooped up. I help you with your potions as much as I can before I get tired, but I’m irritated with being confined in more ways than one.”

My left brow arches. “What are you suggesting? A jaunty day trip to the local abandoned factory?”

“Argh!” The frustration is rolling off her in waves. It isn’t until I hear a telling huff that I realise how upset she is. “I’m just so tired,” she warbles. “I’m not used to letting others do things for me. I’m usually the one getting Harry and...” 

Never has Hermione mentioned what happened with Ron Weasley so many years ago, during their camping expedition for the Horcruxes. I learned what little I know second-hand from Lupin, and even finding out that much was like pulling teeth. I know the basics. Prior to my leading Potter to the sword of Gryffindor, Mister Weasley left their merry little band. He returned that very evening to pull a drowning Potter from the pond’s depths. Had Potter lingered beneath the surface longer, I would’ve pulled him out myself, but the ginger brat had arrived by that point. This is all I know, since I had to quickly leave before my absence was noted at Hogwarts. I’m highly curious to hear the full story. 

Perhaps she will tell me if I ask the right questions. “And?”

She swallows and looks away. “Never mind.”

Dropping my shield, I clutch her to me and Apparate us to the kitchen, where no one is present. Releasing her, I lift her chin with my calloused hand. “What happened with Mister Weasley?”

Unconsciously, she nuzzles into my palm, and my breathing hitches in my chest. I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me, that there is shame tingeing her expression. “He accused me of certain things.”

“What things?”

Her lower lip trembles, so I brush the pad of my thumb against it, which settles her momentarily. “Well, he destroyed the locket that night.”

“I thought Potter—”

She shakes her head. “Ron did it, at Harry’s insistence.” Her eyes close, as if she is remembering the scene. “The locket put up quite a fight, or so I’m told.”

“You weren’t there?”

Another shake of her head. “I was back at the camp, sleeping. Harry had followed your Patronus on his own.” 

Ah, yes, that’s right. At the time, I’d wondered where the analytical bookworm was, since I had known she travelled with Potter, but keeping the bespectacled prat alive had taken precedence. “What did they tell you?”

Hermione grows exceedingly uncomfortable at my question, and I can’t imagine why. Until I hear the answer.

Eyes downcast, she explains, “Harry said the Horcrux assaulted them with images, _graphic_ images, taunting Ron in a bid not to destroy the bit of soul within the locket. I couldn’t fathom what sort of things he witnessed but, apparently, they were enough to bring out the deepest and darkest part of Ron, and he hacked the thing to pieces.” She twists her fingers until I think she may break them. “When I asked Harry about what they saw, all he would say was that it involved me in several intimate situations... with you.”

She whispers the last two words, but they roar in my ears. “With me?” I let go of her face and step back in shock.

Her look of fleeting disappointment morphs into one of mortification. “I-I’m sorry.”

“What for?” I ask absentmindedly. 

“For the images being true, or at least close enough to what I want in reality.”

This clears my mind of any lingering fog. “ _I’m_ not.” I cup her cheeks and lower my head, my lips capturing hers, tasting and exploring tentatively. It is difficult to resist the urge to devour, as I so desperately wish to. I only pull back when we both need to breathe. “Is that closer?”

She sighs and threads her fingers through my long hair, curling them around the strands at the base of my neck to tug me forward. “Closer, please.”

My left hand slides around her waist, and I cup her nape with the other, giving in to her desire to consume me fully. I want to drown in these sensations as her lips, soft and pliant, part beneath mine. When my tongue touches hers, the kiss catches fire, and the maelstrom swirling inside me increases with her moans. Long have I wanted this, waited for this moment when we both are in mutual agreement. 

She presses her willing body closer to mine, her graceful fingers having left my hair and fisted in my shirt. I can’t help but groan when I feel her hand slip downwards to palm the erection straining against my trousers.

“Hermione,” I pant. “The others...” I want this woman, this brilliant witch, _now_ but I will not give anyone in the house a show. 

She nods and, with her in my arms, I Apparate again, bringing us straight to my bedroom above. Once our feet are firmly on the floor, I pull her deeper into my embrace and continue where we left off. 

The witch moans with a lusty pleasure that sends my blood humming. Her lips unfold like petals beneath mine, pressing and begging for more. There is a hunger about her for my kisses, for me, which drapes me with intimidation. I am not wholly sure I am prepared for this. All my life, I have played the role of a self-confident man, of someone holding vast knowledge and rigid control with ease and perfection. In the arms of this woman, however—this soft, delicate, compassionate woman—I am left floundering for steady ground. I am lost in her yearning, terrified by my own desires to remain there, when everything inside me screams to escape before it is too late. 

“Severus?” Eyes the rich shade of chocolate open and pin me. “Love me.”

Ilie’s words of Hermione not letting go until she has my heart come back to haunt me and, in this one moment, I will admit defeat; I do love her! Merlin only knows how much I love her. But if Hermione thinks she is going anywhere without me after this, regardless of what Ilie insinuates, she has another think coming. I will not lose her. I will not allow her to go gently into that good night. I will more than rage against the dying of the light. 

_Love me_ , she says.

I can deny her nothing.

I kiss her, cradling the back of her head and fisting my hand in her hair. It takes no time at all to recognise how she likes to be touched, where she wants my hands, my lips… me. I could stay locked within her embrace for hours, _days_ , worshiping every perfect inch of her, basking and bathing in her subtle beauty and grace. Like everything else in this ravaged world, however, time is against us. Any chance of survival rests on our shoulders, and Death waits for no one, especially not for me to be allowed this ounce of pleasure. 

Her lithe body scarcely makes a dent in the mattress when I lay her down and join her. I quickly strip us both and toss our clothes heedlessly over my shoulder while I cherish every inch of flesh I bare with the hunger of a dying man. 

“I-I don’t… you don’t have to do that,” she whispers when I start down her trembling body with my lips. “We don’t have much time.”

Maybe she realises it too, that this stolen moment will end faster than a heartbeat. I want to cry. I want to rail at every god that has brought pain and misery to us, their children, but that would waste the precious commodity we have been granted. Instead, I hook an arm beneath her hips and lift her to me, pausing briefly to nuzzle her neck and inhale her sweet aroma. Her too-thin arms loop around my shoulders, clasping me close. My free hand roams over the satiny stretch of skin making up her waist and climbs up until I have her breast in my palm. The spongy mound is small, perfect. The rosy peak puckers when I roll it beneath my thumb. Hermione hisses her pleasure and arches her back. Her response draws me to the source of her torment; I take the ruched tip into my mouth and suck, determined to give her as much bliss as possible before the reality of our lives intrudes once more.

“Severus!” Her pleading mewl assures me that I’m doing it right, as does the relentless tugging on my hair.

Her legs part beneath me, cradling me where I long to be. The head of my shaft nestles against the crest of her womanhood, tickled by the tight curls concealing her mound. I continue my adoration of her breasts while reaching down and lining myself to her wet core. I can see in her adoring gaze she wants this as much as I do, so I nudge her legs wider. 

I surge home without another thought, gasping as the overpowering flow of moisture and heat engulfs me in a tight sheath, sucking me deep into the chasm of her very soul. My witch—yes, _my_ witch—keens beneath me, her flushed body bucking off the mattress as I stretch her. 

“More!” she cries, tearing into the muscles of my shoulder blades with her tiny nails. “More, Severus!”

Unlike Hermione, who has her eyes closed and her head tossed back, her face a mask of pure rapture, I keep my eyes open, watching every dance and play of ecstasy splayed out before me. I file away every moan, every gasp and sigh she makes as I thrust into her yearning body. Frustration crinkles her brows when I slow. I give her what I hope is a wicked smile, and her pert little mouth hollows into an ‘O’ when I start to pound into her mercilessly. She is open before me like a book, and I devour her, claiming her with every violent plunge, driving her to the brink of madness before abruptly halting and waiting for her walls to cease their rippling like a thousand tiny mouths along my length. 

She growls with annoyance, digging her heels into my backside. One hand is fisted in my hair and the other gouging my back. There is a strong possibility that I will be bald and bleeding by the time we are finished, but it is a risk I am willing to take if it means having this moment. 

“Don’t tease,” she sobs, wiggling her hips for my attention. “Need you!”

I smirk a little as I gather her up in my arms and kiss her. I move slower this time, holding her close, needing her close. 

Her eyes open and stare into mine when I draw back. Her hips lift with every one of my thrusts, our motions in perfect sync. I kiss her again lightly, swallowing her ragged breaths. 

“So close,” she gasps, quickening the rhythm of her hips. 

She emits a squeak when I grab her waist and turn us both over, perching her on top of me like a beautiful goddess. Her hands dig into my chest as she picks up where I left off, grinding and rolling her pelvis. With a growing ache in my chest, I watch her free her passion. This witch is truly a sight to behold. Poets and musicians who write about a woman’s radiance have never seen anything like the creature taking her pleasure from me. Her back is arched, her head thrown back. Her lips are parted, and her breasts are thrust out to me like an offering—an offering I gladly take with my hands and mouth. 

“Yes!” she rasps, holding me to her chest.

Her core grips me like a vice, so tight and fast, I almost wince. A flood of liquid fire surges down over my immobilized length, drenching me while I restrain my own release for hers to end. Only when she falls lax in my arms do I succumb, allowing the little tremors to suck every last drop of seed from my body, while I shout her name in beloved praise.

Clinging to one another, we dare not move, not even when our breathing slows to normal. It is a fragile moment of peace we have achieved in the wake of so much death and destruction. I only shift slightly to press a kiss to her damp forehead and pull the duvet over our cooling bodies. 

We know it will not last.

~ ~ ~

I opened the door to see Hermione sleeping, a light sheen of sweat coating her brow. I cursed several times over, and hoped I wasn’t too late to administer the improved potion. I entered the claustrophobic cell, sat on the edge of her mattress and brushed away the limp curls sticking to her face. 

“Granger?” Her eyes darted beneath her lids, so I knew she heard me. “Hermione,” I said a little more sternly.

She pried open her sticky eyes and blinked slowly. “Severus,” she replied weakly. “I feel achy again.”

I nodded and tried to help her sit up. “The original potion is wearing off.” Once I had her sitting upright, I withdrew the filled syringe. “I must give you something new.”

“New?” Her words were a bit slurred. “Where did you get it?”

I took her right arm and wrapped the tourniquet around it. “Gilliaume provided the enhanced plasma base.”

“How generous of him.” Her head drooped, and her body trembled. “Will he donate again?”

Needle uncapped, I found a vein, inserted the tip and depressed the plunger. If I had my way, the man would be a continuous source of antibody-laden fluid. “I’m sure he will.”

“You don’t know?” She raised her faced to stare at me, a frown marring her features. “Oh, Severus, tell me you didn’t.”

After I withdrew the needle and sent it to that nameless place where all things go with a flick of my wand, I placed my hand on her brow. “I did what needed to be done.”

She shifted away from my touch. “What did you do?”

A sneer curled my lip. “If it’s any consolation, your Lupin was in total agreement.” 

“He’s not _my_ Lupin,” she muttered harshly. “And it isn’t any kind of consolation that you both agreed to something immoral; it’s quite disturbing!”

Unwilling to let her berate me for saving her life, I rose to leave. “I’m surprised you haven’t grasped the fact that I’m a morally ambiguous wizard.”

“Oh, I had an inkling, back in third year,” she said in a heated manner. 

At the door, I paused and gave her a pointed look. “Then you know my reasons for procuring the plasma, regardless if you agreed with the methods or not.”

Frail as she was, she was still able to cross her arms and give me a nasty glare. “I refuse to be the motivating factor every time you decide to let your integrity slip.”

Incandescent rage filled me. “I’ll remember that the next time you’re lying on the ground with your screams begging me to end your suffering!”

I didn’t care if she said anything more as I slammed the rickety door and descended to where the others were gathered. I’d had enough of endless nights of research to find a damned cure that seemed forever elusive. I’d had enough of complaints, of constant stress—enough of people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do, based on their own ethical compass. 

I’d had enough of just trying to survive.

~ ~ ~

There is something tickling my nose, and I slowly open one eyelid to see that it is Hermione’s hair. It is honey-brown in the weak sunlight that filters into my bedroom. I glance at the wall-clock and notice it is just past ten in the morning—unusually late for either of us to be abed. I suppose it is to be expected, though, especially considering the events that led up to our being in bed together. 

In retrospect, I regret nothing save the events that happened beforehand concerning Lupin. I curl my arm around her possessively and pull her against my chest, relishing the warmth she exudes in slumber. I cannot help but bury my nose into the crux of her neck, inhaling her unique scent. She will not need another dose of potion for at least two weeks, so that gives me some time to work with, in regards to finding another untainted donor or pure-blood. 

My thoughts scatter when she turns in my embrace, and I am met by the simple beauty that is Hermione.

“Hello,” I whisper. 

A contented smile blossoms on her face. “Hello back.” She raises her hand and begins to trace my dark brows with her slender fingers. Her regard is intense, as if she is memorising the lines and shadows of my countenance. Shades of longing colour her gaze and then fade away.

“What has you troubled?” I have never seen Hermione’s emotions so raw as fatigue and illness have made them.

She looks at my lips briefly and returns to my eyes. “We really need to find out what happened with Remus.”

The wolf. Here, in bed, with _me_ , she brings up Lupin. “Then by all means, remove your person from my bed, and I will attend to his body.”

Immediately, she stiffens and refuses to budge an inch. “Stop!” she hisses and cups my face, her thumbs pressing into my flesh. “I-I can’t...” Tears well in her eyes, and I feel ten times an arse for being irascible. “I can’t lose you both.”

Gently, I pull her to me and press my lips to hers. “I promise, you will never lose me.” That is what I promise with my head. 

That _I_ will never lose _her_ is what I promise with my heart.

~ ~ ~

For three days of travel from Lorraine to Calais, I endured Hermione’s silent censure, before she broke down and said more than a few words to me. We had only been able to stay at the cathedral for two days, before circumstances with the ‘special police’ had become too heated for our liking. Lupin had tried to convince Gilliaume to accompany us, but the caretaker had adamantly refused to leave his post, saying that he’d been born in Lorraine and there he would die. At that point, I’d told Lupin to venture discreetly into the streets under the cover of darkness to find some sort of transportation that we could use to travel cross-country without getting ourselves shot at, for Apparating was proving to be too dangerous. In hindsight, I should’ve been more specific. 

He confiscated a military SUV. 

Granted, no one dared approach us, out of fear of reprisal. However, we had to stop frequently to fill the tank with petrol, and that left us vulnerable. 

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly one night, after we had stopped to fill up again and gather fresh supplies at an abandoned petrol station. “I know you took more blood from that Muggle just before we left.”

At least I hadn’t killed the sod. “I don’t know when or if we will come across another like him.” I examined her appearance, noting that it was quite healthy-looking. “I do not regret what I took.” 

She nodded, distracted by prying off the metal plate that led to the petrol cap. “Was he left unharmed?”

“As unharmed as could be expected.” Once Hermione had removed the cap, I lifted the hose, tapped the pump with my wand, and listened as the petrol filled the tank. “I imagine he’ll feel tired for several days, but there will be no other adverse side-effects.” 

We stood in silent regard of one another for several moments, each of us reaching an accord with the other about how to deal with the necessities of survival, the shades of grey we would be forced to accept when it came to living or perishing. It was, I believe, the first time Hermione and I were in complete agreement.

And, in all the time that we travelled with our diverse group, not once did we lose that synchronicity that carried us through those many months of difficult circumstances, through failures and triumphs, through life itself.

It has never lapsed since.

~ ~ ~

I stare at the sample of Lupin’s hippocampus under the microscope, then lean back, rubbing my eyes. Glancing over my shoulder, I take in the wolf’s appearance once again. Gaunt and hollow, with swollen eyes. I return to the slide and peer again at the section of brain I was forced to remove. There are numerous virions—small, rod-like particles and Negri bodies—eosinophilic, sharply outlined, pathognomonic inclusion bodies. I have seen this particular disease often in the slums surrounding Cokeworth as a child, though I was fortunate enough to have never before seen it in humans.

Rabies.

As if that isn’t horrific enough, I find the same golden coating that protects the _Yersinia pestis_ bacteria also shielding the rabies virus from destruction. It is unconscionable, and I can scarcely wrap my mind around it. To think whoever is responsible for the widespread desolation of the world is connected to the cause of Lupin’s madness. 

And why is it all so damn familiar? I look throughout my potions journals, hoping to find even a hint as to why its composition is recognisable, but to no avail. Never have I seen such a chemical makeup, not since—

No. It can’t be...

Practically falling from my stool, I race up the steps into the kitchen, through the sitting room and open the bookcase door to ascend the stairs to my bedroom. Once there, I pull up the loose floorboard where Lupin had placed his letters to Hermione and me. In the crawl space, beside the letters, are several journals I kept while in Voldemort’s employ, filled with formulas and potions that I would never create again, under any circumstances whatsoever.

I pull the books free from the hole and begin flipping through them until I come to the heavily-stained page containing the most dreadful one of all: the Invictus potion. Alone, this potion is laughably worthless. Add it to any other potion, however, and the Invictus potion will amplify any effects as well as create an impervious barrier towards anything that tries to reverse the reaction. An innocuous potion, such as Amortentia, would become highly destructive with Invictus added to it. The victim would feel ‘true love’ for the rest of their lives, instead of the mild crush that Amortentia usually produced.

Add it to Veritaserum, and it would compel the victim to tell the truth for the remainder of their days instead of the mere hours three drops would usually get you. Dreamless Sleep would turn into Eternal Sleep. The possibilities were endless. 

I never spoke of this potion to the Dark Lord; had he known of its existence, Potter would not have stood a chance, regardless of how much help was bestowed upon the boy. I created it during a time when any chance of distracting Voldemort from Dumbledore and Potter’s true aim was welcome. I thank Merlin that it never came to that. 

But I did tell one person of the Invictus potion and its capabilities. 

And if that person duplicated my work from memory, then we are all well and truly buggered.

“Hermione?” I call out in a frantic voice. When she does not answer, I yell loudly, “Granger!”

“She’s not here, Mister Snape,” Rachel says from the doorway. “She left about an hour ago.”

My heart is knocking against my ribs. Why would she leave? “Did she say where she was going?”

Rachel shakes her head. “She was making pictures appear from Mister Lupin’s stick before she left.” 

“Show me,” I demand and I see the first real fear Rachel has ever shown. 

I follow her down the staircase to the sitting room and spy Lupin’s wand lying on a side table. I snatch it and mutter, _Priori Incantato_ , forcing it to reveal its last spells to me.

Misty forms of charms, hexes and spells past, float before my eyes. Foolish, headstrong witch! If I get my hands on her, I’ll kill her myself! She should know better than to rush headlong into danger! I search for any clues that will lead me to...

 _Expelliarmus!_ Lupin’s hex had been directed at the one person I wish were dead.

“Rachel, listen to me very carefully.” I know I am frightening her; I can see it in the way she is trembling, the way tears are falling heedlessly down her cheeks. “If I do not return, there is a large steamer trunk in the cellar, in an alcove off to the right. Press the fourth stone above the metal hook embedded in the wall and the trunk will open. Do you understand?”

She nods, too distraught to speak.

“In it, you will find all that you, Jacob and Ilie need to survive for at least the next few months. I am sorry I cannot guarantee more than that. Should I not return within three days, take the trunk and leave. Burn the house to the ground. Make sure nothing remains.”

Her tremors are highly pronounced by now, and I can tell it is with great effort that she forces words out of her mouth. “Where are you going?”

Grabbing what little Floo powder there is in the small pot on my mantel, I stand in the small hearth and announce, “Malfoy Manor.”


	6. Chapter 6

I know coming to this place is beyond dangerous. I know with an utter certainty that nothing but death waits here, as it always has. It is the one reason I have never approached the Malfoys for their blood: the price would be too high. Though he’s fallen from the Dark Lord’s grace, Lucius was, and ever is, a Death Eater. Given the chance, his views would eclipse Riddle’s in fanaticism. If Lupin found his way to the Manor that fateful night, it is a wonder he even survived long enough to return. I should have warned him. 

If Hermione is here...

There is a noticeable hitch in my breathing as I cautiously step from a sparsely-used hearth in the west wing. Its existence is known to me only due to Narcissa’s paranoia. During Draco’s sixth year, she required that I know of at least three grates through which I could Floo into the estate, in case I needed to flee with her son at any given moment. Two are within the Manor proper, the third in a hunting box deep in the forest surrounding the grounds. Of the two in the manse, the one I have chosen is furthest away from the living quarters. Again, due to her constant worry over her precious child, Narcissa insisted the residence grant me all manners of access, day or night, so I do not risk detection. Should someone, even Lucius, try to alter those wards to prohibit me, Narcissa’s own blood magic would ensure that I slip through unnoticed. 

She was very serious about keeping Draco alive and well. Shortly after Voldemort’s demise, Narcissa took her son and disappeared. I know not whether they are still alive and have assumed different names and appearances or reside somewhere within the Manor, never to resurface within the Wizarding world again. They could very well be dead. 

I have been so preoccupied with Hermione, Lupin and the others, I’ve barely kept tabs on our own world. I know Hermione often tried to contact Potter and the Weasleys in our travels, but no response was forthcoming, and never once in all the months we have been in Cokeworth has she heard from them. That there has been no answer is hopeful and damning in turns. Hopeful, because lack of an answer may mean they’ve perhaps escaped this madness, and damning if it is because there is no one left to even respond.

Wand at the ready, I make my way onto the hardwood floor and cast a _Lumos_ so that I may see the details of the room I have landed in. A spare guest chamber—unused, if the cobwebs and layers of dust are anything to go by. There is a stench, however, of decay that lingers about the room. I cannot define it further, except that it smells as if something or someone has died and been possibly left to rot. Before the attack to my nostrils becomes overwhelming, I exit the room and adhere myself to the shadows permeating the corridor. 

I have been at the Manor several times over the past decades, so I know my way around the maze of rooms—both those that are visible and the ones that no Auror knows about. If I press my hand just below the first sconce on the wall in the hallway to my right, a section of the wooden panelling will slide away to reveal an entry to the dungeon. Before doing so, I listen intently for sounds of distress, yet hear nothing after several minutes. If Hermione is a captive here, Lucius has more than likely placed her in the dungeons.

The slippery and awkwardly-angled steps curve around in a narrow spiral, descending into depths blacker than above. I tread very carefully, knowing one misstep will give away my presence. The light shines enough to traverse the treacherous staircase, and when I reach the bottom, the stench of death is even stronger—so much so, that I must conjure a shield bubble around my head to ward off the impending nausea. 

The light from my wand does not extend far, so I must enter each cell to determine its contents.

I have seen many things in my life, good, terrible and too horrific to mention. The sights before me far outweigh any atrocity, Muggle or wizard, I can put a name to. I now know why Hermione was unsuccessful in receiving a response from our world in the months prior to our leaving Hong Kong. Some of them are in this room... dead. I can tell these remains are of wizards and witches, as individual magic leaves residuals in their bones.

I take the chance and murmur, “ _Lumos Maxima_ ,” so that I may see if I recognise anyone in particular. 

A shock of long, white hair attached to a skeleton, along with odd clothing, reveals what I believe is the Lovegood girl. I imagine her father is nearby as well. Towards the back of the cell, a skeleton is chained to a stone wall by its wrists, a telling mop of ginger hair decorating its skull. I do not want to hazard a guess as to which Weasley it may be, but judging by the bone structure and height, it could very well be Arthur. 

The rest of the remains are unrecognisable, though I do believe I spot Kingsley’s impressive robes in the mix. There is one body that looks to be several months old, but I cannot tell who the person was, other than that they were male. As I slowly back out of the cell, I am comforted by the fact that Hermione is not amongst the litter of corpses. 

When I try the next cell, the odour is eye-watering even with my shield in place; the bodies are in various stages of decomposition. Illumination shows there are at least twenty people—some shackled to the walls, others lying on the stone floor. “ _Homenum Revelio_ ,” I manage, hoping the spell will find anyone alive in this cesspit. 

Nothing. 

I place my arm over my nose and exit the cell, moving to the next, expecting more of the same. As I open the grate, I hear a very faint voice.

“Professor Snape?”

The voice is welcome in this oppressive atmosphere, even though it is not Hermione’s. “I am here. Who are you?” I shine my wand in the direction of the whispery sigh.

“Too late,” the person croaks and then coughs loudly. “Too late.”

I bend low to inspect the speaker. George Weasley—emaciated, ill and most likely about to give up his last breath. “I must get you to safety.”

He reaches up and grabs my lapel in a weak fist, pulling me down to face him. “No time. Must listen!”

Knowing the signs of impending death, I do not argue with him, and instead focus on gaining as much information as possible. “What has happened here?”

“Lucius.”

His one word speaks volumes. “Where is your family?”

He quirks a grin. “Harry and Ginny escaped. Don’t know where. Took Mum, too. The rest...” His smile fades. “Malfoy killed them.”

He is fading fast. “Why? How?”

George’s breathing is now heavily laboured. “Bill. On expedition a year and a half ago. Found Muggle bones buried near a cairn. Some disease in them. Bones were stolen from dig site, never recovered. Hell broke loose a couple months later. Aurors came here, never seen again.”

Some of what he’s saying makes sense, but my fear is now mounting again. “Where is Granger?”

The young wizard’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “If she’s here, she’s dead.”

“Don’t say that!” When his eyes roll back, I slap his face to rouse him. “Tell me where she is!”

“He—” George’s chest is barely moving at this point. “—keeps them bound in the library. Until...”

“Until what?”

But no answer will pass his lips ever again. The ginger twin is silent and still, his eyes fixed in an empty stare. I quickly close them and rise, glancing around the cell to see if anyone else is alive. There are six other people in this cell, but Weasley was the only one living. I cannot spare a moment of grief. Not when I need to make my way to the library.

I have been ever vigilant since arriving at Malfoy Manor, and there are several things that strike me as odd. I have seen no house-elves and, since torturing them was Lucius’ favourite pastime, the mansion used to be filled with them. Furthermore, why was a third of Britain’s wizarding population either dead or rotting in his dungeons? What happened to the Ministry? They were very much in control when Hermione, Lupin and I left for China. 

Doubling back the way I came, I emerge from the hidden corridor into the dim hallway several floors above. Lucius’ famed library is in the east wing of the mansion, so I head in that direction, bypassing multiple rooms in varying states of disrepair. I assume Narcissa is not in residence; she would have never allowed her house to fall into such conditions. 

It isn’t until I reach the hall nearest the grand ballroom that I hear something, the murmur of voices. They are emanating from the library, just as Weasley supposed. Stopping just outside the double wooden doors, I close my eyes and slow my breathing so that I may hear everything said inside. 

“Where is he?” It sounds as if Lucius is in a foul mood.

There is a sharp crack and a sob. “I don’t know!” a woman shouts, and I suddenly realise that it’s Hermione.

My instinct is to rush into the room like a bloody Gryffindor, but my need to know what kind of advantage I may have stymies this reaction.

“How did you get past my wards, Mudblood?” Another crack and sob. “How did you, the most loathsome creature upon this earth, break through the most sophisticated shield spells ever created?”

“I’m not called the smartest witch of my age for nothing!” she shouts, and I am fiercely proud of her. It’s very possible she came to no harm from Lucius’ wards due to having my blood in her system and Narcissa’s modification, but she is still quite brilliant. 

“You are not a witch! You are nothing more than whorish filth meant to serve us. Tell me, did you spread your legs for the little Prince?” 

Righteous anger boils in my gut. I don’t know how long I can temper this urge to disembowel the wizard who used to be my mentor. 

“He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be, Malfoy!”

Lucius’ laughter fills the room and sends chills down my spine. “Really? It might interest you to know what your ‘man’ is capable of.”

“Many great things,” Hermione counters, and though it fills my heart with warmth I have never felt except in her arms, I know Lucius will maniacally twist her words into something dreadful.

And I’m right.

“Yes, he has achieved... many great and _terrible_ things.” There is a shuffling noise. “Take for instance, the current state of the world.”

I hear a gasp before she says, “What do you mean? Severus had nothing to do with this pandemic.” My heart clenches. 

“You really are a stupid girl, aren’t you?” Lucius observes, and I don’t need to see him to know that he is sneering at her. “I must admit, when Mundungus Fletcher brought me a sack of Muggle bones, I thought the vermin had finally lost what little brain he had. Imagine my surprise when those bones yielded a most fortuitous opportunity.” There was a short bark of laughter. “I even showed the dwarfish cretin mercy by killing him quickly instead of torturing him for days, because he’d brought me something useful.”

“Mundungus was a vile, treacherous—”

A loud slap can be heard and then a soft whimper. “It’s rude to interrupt!” Lucius screams. 

My hand is on the door-knob, and I’m ready to enter and stop this madness, when I hear Hermione sniff and tell her captor, “No matter what you do to me, Severus will kill you.”

In that assumption, she is correct. I will kill my former friend with my bare hands. And I will enjoy it. I force my way into the library, only to have a wand shoved against my throat.

“Not if I kill him first.”

Not my best moment, I assure you.

“Severus!” Hermione is cruelly bound to the wall, arms over her head. Her face is battered black and blue from Lucius’ interrogation of her for the past hour. Every mark on her pale skin enrages me further. 

Lucius gives me a smug grin. “Well, well. When did you finally make it back to England?”

“Your network of spies is inadequate, Lucius. I’ve been back for a year now.”

He frowns for a brief moment and darts his attention to Hermione though he speaks to me. “How have you been keeping her alive?”

“I have my ways.”

“Severus, don’t—”

“ _Silencio!_ ” With a flick of his wand, Lucius ensures the witch cannot speak. “Disgusting Muggle-born, never learning proper manners.”

While he is distracted, I grab his right wrist and twist it behind his back, forcing him to let go of the stick before pressing my own wand just under his jaw. “Now, tell me what you’ve done, and I might kill you quickly.”

Madness tinges Lucius’ voice, and I wonder how much of the man I used to know still resides within. “That’s not much incentive for me to tell you anything, is there, old fellow?” he asks. “You know the rules: sweeten the deal, and I might comply.”

Sometimes I hate being associated with Slytherins. Then again, most times I don’t. “I could just give you Veritaserum.”

“You’re bluffing. You haven’t the supplies to concoct a proper batch.” 

He may be mad, but he is still intelligent. “How do you know I don’t have a vial somewhere in my reserves?”

“What reserves?” he snorts. “I know you, Severus. I know how you manipulate, with lies mixed with just enough truth to tempt. You might have had reserves, long ago, but they have since expired, or you’ve had to use them up.”

“Tell me. What. You. Have done,” I growl in a deadly tone and spin him around to face me. I am in no mood to play games. 

Lucius gives me a depraved smile. “I can wait forever, my friend.” He shifts his eyes to Hermione. “But can she?”

I glance at Hermione and remove the spell. “ _Finite Incantatem_.” She coughs and pulls at the now loose binding around her wrists. 

“Are you all right?” I can’t run to her, much as I want to.

“He’s the reason Remus went mad, Severus,” she wheezes and tugs one hand free. “Malfoy gave him some kind of—”

“Rabies,” I tell her, and she pauses in her struggles. “I was about to tell you what I had found when I discovered you were missing.” I want to scold her for her imprudent behaviour, but to be honest, I am just exceedingly grateful I found her alive. 

Menacing laughter erupts from Lucius’ throat. “My, you have been busy. You were ever studious, Snape. How long did it take you to figure out what the half-breed had? I thought it would take at least a week for him to succumb.”

Having freed herself, Hermione walks to Malfoy and punches him in the nose. “That’s for Remus!” She draws back her fist to deliver another blow, but she sways and collapses to the floor, and in that moment I know Lucius has done something to accelerate the progression of her illness.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” I mutter, and Lucius is bound by whispery blue ropes. I quickly make my way over to Hermione and bend low to cradle her against my chest. “Hold on,” I beg.

As I adjust her now limp form in my arms, Lucius licks his lips, and I am instantly reminded of Barty Crouch, Junior. “I don’t think she’ll hold on for long. It seems you’ve reached an impasse.”

“How so?”

The sneer curling his lip is cruel. “Kill me, and you’ll never know.”

“Know what, Lucius? At this point, I may kill you because you’re trying my patience.”

“How to cure her, of course.”

I snort. “I already know. And you’re going to help me.”

“Is that so?” He arches a brow. “Are you quite sure?”

Dread, heavy like an iron weight, pools in my stomach. “What more have you done?” 

“She’s only been here for little over an hour. What could I have possibly done in such a short amount of time?” he says, a little too innocently.

Though I am loathe to let her go, I lay Hermione gently on the floor, cross to Lucius and press the tip of my wand to his cheek. “No more stalling, _old friend_. No more half-truths or lies. I will take what I want. _Legilimens!_ ” 

It is almost too easy, how I slide past his defences.

_“You dare bring me Muggle bones?” Lucius roars at the cowering, stunted man before him. “I said to find me something that will eradicate the cockroaches of this world, not an already dead member of their species!”_

_“These are special bones, I swear!” Mundungus splutters. “I heard that ginger wizard said they were tainted from long ago!”_

_Lucius pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Tainted, you say? In what way?”_

_Mundungus dares to look at the wrathful blond. “They got this...” The short wizard waves his hands in a helpless manner. “Back-tear-ree-ah, deep in the marrow.” He pulls out what looks like a femur bone from the burlap sack at his feet and hands it to Lucius. “See for yourself.”_

_“Imbecile!” Lucius shouts and quickly erects a barrier before Mundungus can place the bone in his hand. “_ Avada Kedavra! _”_

_The larcenous wizard collapses on the floor, releasing the bone, and Lucius stands and approaches him. Toeing the dead man’s body with his dragon hide boot, he tuts in disgust. “Foolish idiot,” he mutters. “If this back-tear-ree-ah can kill a Muggle, how do I know it won’t kill us all?” He gives the body a swift kick for good measure._

_Glancing at the femur that has skittered way, he narrows his eyes. He casts a shield around the bone and levitates it to float before him. “Kill a Muggle...” he ponders aloud, and a sinister smile curls his lips. “You may prove useful yet.” He studies the slowly rotating bone. “Grubby!”_

_A house-elf pops up several feet from Lucius. “Yes, master?”_

_“Tell Draco I wish to see him.”_

_The house-elf trembles violently. “Young master is not here, sir.”_

_Lucius’ gaze grows frosty. “What do you mean, he is not here? I just saw him not an hour ago and I haven’t felt the wards shift; why would you think he’s not here?”_

_Tears pool in the tiny being’s eyes. “Mistress took young master and left.”_

_Incensed, Lucius fires a Killing Curse at the poor creature in retaliation for a crime the house-elf has not committed. He then turns, strides down the corridor to where Narcissa’s suite of rooms are located and flings open the door, only to be met with emptied wardrobes, disarrayed bedding and missing trinkets that were precious only to her. In a rage, he Apparates to Draco’s chambers but comes upon much of the same as his wife’s rooms._

_“No!” he roars, slamming the door, his eyes wild. “Leave me, did they?” He Apparates back to the library, where he left the bone. “You will come crawling back to me on your lowly bellies. All of you!” He ensconces the bone in an even more powerful shield and grabs it with a gloved hand. “I will become a god in the eyes of mere mortals. A god!”_

There is a violent shift in the memories, and I am thrust into another scene that takes an even more shocking turn. Instead of seeing Lucius’ increasing madness, I behold myself standing at a workbench littered with instruments, jars, cauldrons, and vials of potions. There is a noticeably cloudy look in my eyes.

_“How long?” Lucius intones from the left, out of sight._

_I pour a golden, viscous fluid into a clear jar and swirl it. “Two days. One for curing, one to coat the desired product.”_

_“And how long to extract—what was it called again?”_

_“The_ Yersinia pestis _bacteria. It will take one day to extract the samples of bone and refine the DNA so that the bacteria can be removed from the cells,” I answer in a monotone._

 _Lucius nods. “Good, good.” He glances at me and lifts his wand. “_ Imperio _,” he hisses. “You will create the Invictus potion for other diseases as well.”_

_In a dull, listless voice, I say, “As you wish.”_

_“You will create enough Invictus so that I may add it to any other potion of my choosing, in unlimited supply.”_

_“As you wish.”_

_“I hear that rank Mudblood begged you for an apprenticeship. Did you give it to her?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Perfect.” Lucius scans the cluttered table. “Is there anything that is ready?”_

_“Ferrum Morbus.”_

_He licks his lips in anticipation. “We’ll test it, shall we?” He holds out his hand to me, and I pass him a small vial of rust-coloured liquid. “Captus!”_

_A stout and disagreeable looking house-elf pops up next to Lucius. “Yes, master?”_

_“Drink this.”_

_The creature takes the vial and downs the contents without a question. Immediately, its eyes begin to bulge, and it grabs its throat, choking and trying to clear its airway—all to no avail. Within seconds, the house-elf is bleeding from its mouth and ears, only to crumple to the floor and breathe no more._

_“Excellent!” Lucius proclaims. He hands me the vial to be reused, along with a piece of parchment. “Here are the names of my house-elves, should you need test subjects.” Once I’ve taken the items, Lucius narrows his eyes. “I want no mistakes, Severus. Is that clear?”_

_I nod. “As you wish.”_

_“This,” Lucius agrees, “is what I wish.”_

Memories of the next weeks scroll by: my making the Invictus potion, gallons at a time, under Lucius’ watchful gaze; manipulating and altering Muggle diseases—and Wizarding ones, like Dragon Pox—until there is an enormous cache of deadly weapons at Lucius’ disposal; constant renewal of the Imperius curse by Lucius, which only halts when there is a bright flash, an urgently whispered, “ _Obliviate_ ,” and then darkness that doesn’t seem to fade. 

The memories thrust ahead months at a time, but focus only on periodic snippets, such as the release of the altered bacteria in Muggle London; the slow breakdown of Muggle government and law enforcement starting in the United Kingdom and the rapid progression across Europe, due to the various forms of plague; the subtle infiltration of the Ministry of Magic via one enhanced potion or another that facilitates the complete collapse of the Wizarding world due to desperate Muggles. These wizards or witches whom Lucius does not kill or imprison are murdered outright by superstitious humans searching for a cure, all while Lucius remains protected in his isolated estate. 

As the images of annihilation continue to flow past, there is one constant: Lucius, sitting on a throne-like chair in his library, nodding like a magnanimous and benevolent dictator at all he has created with my help. Malfoy has truly bested Voldemort in their shared dream of exterminating Muggles from the face of the earth. Lucius even took it a step further by not only killing Muggles, but murdering anyone—most especially those in the Ministry—who stood in his way of achieving his goal.

I rip my mind from this inhumane thing before me, and retch on the floor. With every heave of my stomach, I moan at what I have done, what I have created in my hubris. Such a delicate balancing act of good and evil, where the slightest pressure to either side would bring the whole world tumbling down into chaos, and I was the one who tipped the scale. 

And it did not happen with a cataclysmic explosion, or with nations posturing for supremacy. No, it happened quietly, inching its way through the sleeping streets, seizing the weak, the aged and—most horrifically—the young. Normally, nature would halt the progress when its course was run, but this silent murderer is different.

It’s had assistance of the wizarding variety. _Mine_. 

Death is too good for me.

“Thank you, Severus,” Lucius says in a munificent manner. “I had a vision, and you allowed me to fulfil that vision spectacularly.”

What is left of my soul, my battered and despicable soul, seethes with vile repugnance. I rise from my bent position, summon a book and transfigure it into an athamé identical to the one I used to kill Lupin. Slowly, I approach the monster bound by my hex, look into his empty eyes and slit his throat. I dispassionately watch him gurgle on his own blood, while he tries to draw in a deep breath, only to splutter and fail. The mad gleam that sparks in his eyes’ cold, grey depths slowly dims, until there is nothing but sightless orbs returning my revolted gaze. 

I feel no pity, no remorse for having ended this being’s reign of terror, though I suppose I should in some way. Still, I don’t. 

After all... what is one more soul upon my conscience?

I hear the blade clatter to the floor, though I don’t recall letting it slip from my blood-coated fingers. Moving as if under the Imperius once again, I make my way over to where Hermione is lying still and with an unhealthy look about her. I drop to my knees and gather her to me.

“Hermione?” I push away the curls that obstruct her beloved face. “Please, wake up!”

The shallow movements of her chest assure me that she is still breathing, though not for long. 

“Hermione!” No response. I blink rapidly at the tears pooling in my eyes. “Damn it! Wake up!” Her body goes completely lax in my arms, and she ceases to breathe. “No! No, you’re strong and determined. Don’t give up!” I lay her body prone and begin chest compressions in an effort to keep pumping blood through her heart, but she is only growing cyanotic as her eyes remain halfway open in a blank stare. “Live, goddamn it! I can’t lose you, too!” My arms are becoming tired with the near-constant pressure to her sternum, so I grab my wand and add an electrical jolt straight to her heart. “ _Breathe_!” I scream and slap her for good measure. 

Nothing. 

“Not this woman. Not _this_ witch,” I can hear myself moaning over and over in benediction. “You can’t have her!” I shout to an unseen entity, as if Death is standing right beside me, waiting until I give up. But I won’t. I continue the spell to revive her, heedless of my tears dropping to her cheeks. “You’ve never given up in your life, Hermione,” I plead desperately. “Don’t start now! Fight!” 

Silence.

I slip my arms under her and cradle her limp form close, burying my nose in her hair. “You can’t leave me. Not now. You brought me back, remember? I must return the favour, you silly girl.” I rock back and forth slowly, whispering things I want her to know. “I need to tell you what really matters, to say how much I love you, how grateful I am for every moment that I have had with you, for your belief in me, your trust.”

My lips are pressing against her forehead while I caress her battered cheek. “You’re so courageous, love. Have the courage to live. Anyone can die.” 

Stillness.

The lack of response causes my heart to plummet, and I feel a soul-deep wail caught in my throat. It is only delayed when I hear her faintly whisper, “Severus,” and then I cannot help but sob my relief.

“I hurt,” she rasps.

I place my trembling, bloodied fingers over her lips to still them. “Shhh. Don’t talk, love. Just rest... rest.”

She blinks slowly in affirmation.

It is enough... for now.

~ ~ ~

It has been three months since I razed Malfoy Manor to the ground, destroying everything Lucius and I created in that brief period of time that I still don’t fully remember. I have yet to recall how he gained entrance to Hogwarts or what lies he told to entice me to accompany him, but I still hold myself accountable for everything that has befallen the human race. This will never change. 

Before I left his body to be consumed by Fiend Fyre, I collected as much of his blood as I could; he might as well prove useful in death if not in life. I kept enough of the Invictus potion to enhance the formula I had been giving Ilie, Rachel, Jacob and Hermione. They haven’t shown any signs of illness since I administered the last dose two days after taking humanity’s revenge on Malfoy.

I have high hopes. 

Assuming the potion has long-term results, we will all leave Cokeworth and search for those who have survived or those in the beginning stages of the infection. Should Malfoy’s blood ultimately prove ineffective, I will begin the process of finding another _donor_ , away from this place. I will try to save as many as I can, though it will not ease my conscience. Then again, I do not deserve that sort of absolution.

Hermione rarely leaves my side, and for that small mercy, I am eternally grateful. Although we have Lupin’s letters, neither of us has had the courage to read them yet. Perhaps when the sting of his death is more bearable, Hermione and I will take a moment to read them... separate and alone. While I knew Lupin held the deepest affection for her, I am not quite sure I want to know the full extent of what he felt for me. I may never want to know. Thus, his letter to me will remain safely tucked away until an impulse of morbid curiosity forces me to break the wax seal and read the wolf’s thoughts. I will not ask the contents of Hermione’s letter—it’s better this way. I cannot hate Lupin any longer, for he is finally free of this wretched mortal coil, and I envy him his place amongst the angels.

Hermione is still as doting as ever. She does not know the extent to which I am responsible for the state of the world. I will never tell her, if I can help it. So far, she has not asked, though I believe she suspects something, if not the depth of my culpability. I will not tell her, for purely selfish reasons. I am a possessive man, and this witch is _mine_ , here on this plane, in this time.

For I want a glimpse of Heaven before I am made to serve in Hell for all that I have wrought.


End file.
